Recognition
by lyn
Summary: Cian, an undead rogue, meets a night elf from his living days in Warsong Gulch. After a little kidnapping between friends, he finds himself caught up in a quest to cure undeath, while Azeroth itself is under siege. NEW: The Curse Between Us.
1. Recognition

.I.  
Recognition

She was standing by a freezing trap, in the heart of Silverwing Hold. If Cian moved too close, he would be encased in a block of ice, unable to move while she thought of what to do with him. He wondered if she would look on his rotting body and recognize him, if she would know his voice when he spoke. His face was hidden by a red mask, but even if she could discern its features would she know him for who he was? Doubtful.

Cian edged closer to the night elf. His daggers dripped with poison designed to cripple his targets so that they could not escape him.

Eulalia would not escape him.

Still, he had to be careful. Eulalia had set a sparking flare on top of her trap, and an enormous white tiger waited in the shadows by her side, prepared to strike. If he approached the flare he would be revealed and he reckoned that the tiger wouldn't mind a snack of his bone marrow. Slowly he edged closer, glancing around the small room in search of anyone who might interfere. Fortunately, Eula's colleagues had left her alone, to pursue the rest of Cian's team. They were outside, fighting amongst each other. He could hear them shrieking in indignation and triumph, but they had not yet broken the line to enter the hold. Only he had slipped through.

Cian crept up near Eulalia. Her expression was focused and calm, and even now when he looked at her he was seared by her luminous silver eyes. Much of her pale, cherubic face was obscured by her helmet, which looked to Cian like the fossilized plumage of a rare bird. Matching armor covered the rest of her body, including a set of maroon, formidably spiked pauldrons. She had kept herself busy since they last met—but then, so had he.

Eulalia stirred. She turned, moved forward, looked left and right and above. Cian tensed.

She laid a fresh trap, and the air hissed as she sent up another flare. Cian pressed against the wall behind her. His sallow skin perspired. It had been so long since his nerves tingled that he had forgotten they existed.

The great tiger was just beside him, cloaked in its own shadows. In this power they were much alike, although he could likely kill it with two precise strokes of his dagger. But that would alert her, that would ruin everything.

The din of fighting echoed in the hold's entrance tunnel.

"What are ya doin', mon?" An'jin, a troll mage, spoke worriedly into his mind. "Take her!"

An'jin hovered on the hold's roof, staring at Eulalia. His hands crackled with fire. Cian restrained himself. If he had learned anything in recent years, it was the discipline of patience.

Eula's long, sharp ears picked up the sound, and her eyes flicked up to An'jin. She drew an arrow from her bow, and as the fireball blasted down to consume her, her arrow whistled through it and struck An'jin in the chest. The troll collapsed on the floor as his flames engulfed Eula. Her armor absorbed the brunt of the force but she gritted her teeth nonetheless and blood seeped through the chinks in her breastplate and gloves. Coughing, she began to bandage herself, and Cian seized the opportunity.

He raised the flat edge of his dagger and struck her on the back of the neck, so that she slumped over, aware but unable to move. Alarm flashed in her eyes, but until he acted again he was still hidden. Slowly, he traced one dagger's point along her collarbone and the other beneath her chin, just deep enough so that the poison could steal into her veins, helped along by her open wounds. With difficulty, she reached for her polearm to retaliate, but he jammed the first dagger's pommel into her side, and she spat blood.

"Shh," he murmured, and her struggle failed.

The cat, no longer aware of its master, had disappeared until it was called back. Cian lifted Eulalia's body and left the hold as a crowd of Alliance and Horde charged into the room. He cared little for that conflict today, and did not mind the mark of desertion shining on his forehead as he dragged Eula away from the gulch and towards a secluded cave.

Cian propped Eulalia against the stone wall. She was not dead, only incapacitated by her injuries and the poison still tainting her blood.

He was not sorry, and he was content to wait.

Her helmet was askew and her ponytail had come loose, so that her hair cascaded in waves down her back and chest, pallid and reflective as the moon. He buried his clawed hands into the soft locks, fingering them idly. The sensation calmed him, and he had the passing thought that he wouldn't have minded staying this way with her until the curse on his flesh finally broke.

But it was not to be.

Eulalia moaned, and her eyelids began to open. The silver light of her eyes washed over him, and he gripped a lock of her hair too tightly, so that she grimaced in pain.

"What's going on?" she said mournfully, in Common. It was a language he still recalled—most of his kind did, really. They had just adopted Gutterspeak as a dialect, a way to distance themselves from their former lives. "Why am I in this cave? There's nothing in here but ghost mushrooms and I thought I already picked all of the fresh ones before I went into the gulch."

Eulalia had not changed. Cian had always marveled at her ability to know exactly where she was at any given time even though she could barely read a signpost without outside assistance.

She noticed him then, still clutching her hair.

"Zombie!" she yelped. What a vulgar word, he thought. "You're that zombie who was going all stabby stabby at me! What do you want?"

Eula tried to move, but the poison was too powerful still, and she faltered, heaving.

"Ooh," she sighed. "Just wait 'til this wears off. I will give you _such_ a _pinch_."

"I doubt that," Cian said. His voice was both gravelly and ethereal, reverberating of its own power, retaining only the barest trace of its original, far softer form.

"Are you going to kill me?" Eula asked woozily. "Because I can't tolerate that sitting down. I shan't."

She fumbled for her glowing polearm, which Cian had taken from her and set behind him.

"No," he said.

"What do you want, then? I really haven't got a lot of money, arrows are awfully expensive," Eula said.

"I don't want your money, Eulalia," Cian said.

She paused, and seemed to see him clearly for the first time since her abduction. "Who are you?"

He shrugged. "A ghost."

It had not been so long since he met her; only five years. An exhalation of breath in her people's time. He was only eighteen then. She had told him that she was in her mid thousands, but for elves this meant little. Although the race was no longer immortal, they boasted remarkable lifespans—especially compared to humans, who only managed to coax about fifty years from their bodies before things began to break down.

Eula had not aged at all since then, although the lines of her lips were firmer and her eyes clearer than he remembered from before.

Cian leaned over. A facsimile of respiration passed through his shriveled organs, ragged and broken. The edges of his leather mask stopped before the pouty jut of her mouth as she pursed her lips in consideration. A bit of fleshy tongue poked out. He wanted to seize it. Cut it out with his dagger and pin it to a good frame.

He pushed his palms against her shoulders, and she gasped as the small rocks in the cave wall bit into her spine.

"Ow—look," she said, trying to fight him off, "Crazy zombie—let me go, please. I was guarding something."

Cian pulled down his mask, and tried not to be offended when she balked at his face. He hadn't been too excited when he first saw it either.

His eyes gleamed yellow and were sunken into their sockets, his decomposed skin literally sagged on his jaundiced bones, and it was so devoid of sanguinity that he often killed rats by blinding them. Cian's dark hair was thick but matted together on his head, and it was hypothermia blue in color. In places there was nothing but exposed bones—elbows, knees, feet—he lent new meaning to the phrase bony hips.

When a sense of conscious will returned to him, Cian's first act after understanding what had become of him was to end the crisis before it got any worse. He hung himself, gut himself, drank the foulest poison he could find, and threw himself off of cliffs. Each time his soul remained firmly stuck to what remained of his skin. In despair, Cian had wandered until he found a settlement of like-minded creatures, who took him in and told him what he was—Forsaken.

Cian couldn't argue with that.

"You look really different," Eulalia announced. "Like, a_lot_."

Cian blinked. "You recognize me?"

"Cian," she said. "Please stop pushing me. It hurts."

Suddenly angry, he shoved against her harder, and she winced in confusion and pain.

"You _recognize_ me?" he hissed. "How could you possibly? _Look at me_."

He took off his gloves, undid his vest. He felt sluggish as he tossed pieces of his enchanted armor on the ground, but it was tempered by the energy of his rage. Almost worse than forgetting him, Eulalia had known him instantly, as though he had looked this way forever, as though he had always been such a monster.

Cian crushed his ice-cold mouth to hers, and she whimpered under the force. He counted himself lucky that he even had a jaw left to support a kiss: he needed her to feel his contagion, his decay, to understand the nature of his affliction.

Eulalia tasted like grass and fresh water. She was not one for perfumes and oils, given that she spent most of her time in the forest, crashing through muddy rivers and tracking animals through their fecal matter. Because of this, he thought, she did not spit or retch when he let her go, she only stared at him wide-eyed, as though their physical contact had told her his life's story—and it was one she had not particularly enjoyed.

"Stop it," he said, and began to redress hastily. "Stop it now."

"But you told me to look at you," Eula said, without a trace of rancor.

"Now I'm telling you to stop."

"Okay," she adjusted her gaze so that she was observing a blue-white mushroom growing out of a nearby crevice. She reached to harvest it eagerly. The poison had finished its course.

Cian's rage deflated, unable to sustain itself as he watched her hum a high-pitched tune and stuff the herb into one of her bags.

"This ghost 'shroom is really good," Eulalia said. "I can make lots of neat stuff with it. Like this—"

She delved into her one of her bags, fishing thoughtfully until she found another herb and an empty vial. Another minute passed as she searched for the ghost mushroom again, which had immediately been swallowed by the various items protruding from her packs.

"Okay, check this out!" Eulalia said. She crushed the two herbs together over the vial's top and then dipped the result into a nearby pool of water. Carefully she shook the ingredients together until she had produced a golden liquid.

"Drink it," she urged, handing him the vial.

"Are you kidding?" Cian said. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No …" Eulalia said, her tone surprisingly hurt. None of the other abuse mattered in comparison to this potion, apparently. "I'm just trying to show you something nifty."

"Do you understand what just happened between us?" Cian said, frustrated by her relentless goodwill.

"Weeelll, you kissed me, but it was kind of in a mean way, cos I think I'm going to be bruised back there for a little while," Eula replied slowly. "But if you kissed me, you must think I'm pretty, and that's nice."

Cian sighed. "Yes. Yes, I do think you're pretty."

Eulalia smiled.

"But what about the bit where I stabbed you, poisoned you, and kidnapped you?"

"Oh, people do that sort of thing to me all the time," Eulalia waved her hand dismissively. "It doesn't mean we can't still be friends! Although usually I do beat'em up a little bit for it. Like that troll mage earlier, I hope he's all right."

"You _killed him_."

"But he'll be fine, the spirit guides are very helpful about that sort of thing. Anyway, pyroblasts are so _rude_."

Five years and she really hadn't changed at all.

"So how are you doing?" she asked.

Cian swished the potion's contents in their vial and shrugged.

"You really should drink it," Eula said. "It's neeaat."

"Fine," he grumbled. "But if this makes things any worse for me, I'm coming after you, woman."

He uncorked the vial and drained it into his throat. The concoction was bitter and salty across his gummy, dry tongue. He waited warily for an effect to manifest itself, and he was so focused on what hideous change would overcome him that he didn't notice Eulalia's fist punching him square in the cheek.

Nor, to his confusion, did he feel it.

She punched him again, in the chest, upside the head, and so forth, and he knew no pain from the attacks.

"It's for limited invul—invulng—um—makes it so people can't hit you!" she said happily. "It doesn't last that long though!"

She punctuated her statement with another slug to the stomach, which caused Cian to double over in agony.

He swore angrily and she just laughed. "Isn't that fun?"

"Up until just then I guess," Cian grumbled.

Eulalia behaved as if nothing had happened.

A sense of déjà vu overcame him.

"You still robbing people?" Eulalia asked.

This was how they had originally met. He was a minor pickpocket in Stormwind while human, a disinterested thug for the Defias Brotherhood in essence. Not the most honorable living, but it wasn't like he ever hurt anybody. Most of the time no one knew what had happened until they felt for their coin purse and found it gone.

Despite appearances, Eulalia was considerably more perceptive than the average Stormwind citizen.

---

She stood in the auction house, poring over a table of books, jewels, faded dragon scales and other baubles. Later she had told him that she rarely bought anything there, but she liked browsing the selection because everything there sparkled so brightly. She stood out among all the humans: although they had a well-established alliance with the high elves in Lordaeron, a purple elf was unheard of. Eulalia explained her origin as 'stow away' when pressed, but didn't seem to differentiate herself from her magically adept kin. For their part, the high elves looked upon her with disdain and called her 'Kaldorei,' though no human would understand that term until several years later. She was a frequent visitor to the human cities, and they took her as simply an odd variation on the elves they knew--but she was still foreign, still conspicuous. An easy mark, Cian thought.

Cian hooked a thumb around her beltloop, quiet as a falling leaf. He pinched a sack of coins from her waist, but as he tried to slip into the throng she clamped a hand on his wrist. Without turning from the table, she said, "Please give that back 'cos I'm pretty sure it's mine."

Cian wrenched away and ran, but she was beside and ahead of him within seconds.

"Really, sir," she said. "I'm almost out of arrows so please give that back now. I don't want to fight."

She obstructed his path and frowned at him quizzically, as though she could not fathom why anyone would take things that didn't belong to them. Eulalia held out her hand expectantly, and Cian was so perturbed that he dropped the bag into her palm.

Then she asked, "Are you hungry?"

"Always," he muttered.

She grabbed his wrist again and led him to the nearest tavern, where she forced him into a chair and ordered him a plate of food.

"What are you doing?" Cian said uncomfortably as she sat across from him and grinned, somewhat madly. He had obviously chosen the wrong mark that day.

"If you're stealing money it's 'cos you need it for stuff, right? And food is pretty important as far as stuff goes," she replied. "Soo we're getting you some food."

"You're pretty friendly for a night elf," he said.

"And you're pretty meek for a thief," she answered cheerfully.

"I don't want to hurt anybody," he said, more to the table than her.

"Are you sure? 'Cos you can make a lot of money in that business," Eulalia said.

He peered at her with an eyebrow raised. "No way are _you _an assassin."

"That is a mean word and I don't like it," Eulalia said. "I'm an _adventurer_. I do all kind of things, some of them involving killing people, that is true, but always only bad people, and it is fine to kill a person if they are bad."

"What makes you an arbiter of morality?"

"What?" Eulalia said.

"I didn't stutter," Cian said.

"No, really … I didn't get any of that."

With a heavy sigh, Cian tried again. "What gives you the right to judge something like that?"

"What doesn't?" Eulalia retorted.

Cian opened his mouth to argue but she went on, "Anyway, it doesn't matter, 'cos if I decide they are bad then they are bad and I kill them, and if it was wrong then it will sort itself out later somehow. It's pretty hard getting stuff to _stay_ dead around here anyways."

"Yeah," he admitted. "What with the Scourge and all."

"Now they are totally bad," Eulalia said emphatically. By this time their meals had been delivered, and she talked through eager bites of a leg of boar.

Cian couldn't help but devour the food before him; it had been two days since he last ate anything that actually qualified as edible.

"Thanks for all this," he muttered. "You didn't have to."

"Aww, don't worry about it at all," Eulalia said. "But don't think I'm just letting you go, sir!"

He gulped nervously, almost choking on a mouthful of beer. Elves were known for their harsh treatment of criminals: he recalled the story about how they had captured the forest warlord Zul'jin and stuck a dagger straight into his eye. Maybe this woman was a ruthless harbinger of justice who had lulled him into a comfortable state so she could more easily cut off his hands or other vital parts.

"Nope, I'm not lettin' you go until you agree to some adventurer training," Eulalia proclaimed, looking pleased with herself.

"Uh, I don't know if I'm …"

"Don't argue, you're doin' it! For your own good," she said. "Now you can't go a-huntering like me 'cos humans aren't so hot with animal talking, but we can run with the thief thing."

"Look, miss—"

"Eulalia!"

"Okay, look, Eula—Eu—Eulalia," he stammered, "I'm not really cut out for that type of work."

But she wasn't listening.

Eulalia paid the bill for their meal and seized Cian again, leading him to the rogue trainer next door.

"You're not a rogue," Osbourne said to Eulalia in irritation. "And I don't know _what_ he is."

"Your newest apprentice!" Eulalia said. "He tried to take my money and he almost got away with it, too. I had to call on cheetah powers and everything."

Apparently this was enough to recommend Cian, because Osbourne said, "Let's give him a tryout, then. C'mere, kid."

The training wasn't difficult, but it was expensive, more and moreso as Cian learned advanced skills. Eulalia handled all of the expenses—in fact, for the next six months, she haunted Cian like an excitable poltergeist. When he asked her why she was wasting her time like this (which he did frequently), she only replied, "If I thought this was gonna be a waste I would have let you get away."

And, as it turned out, he did have a knack for adventuring—or at least for creeping up behind people and burying knives into their spines. However, the satisfaction he derived from a quick, brutal kill unnerved him, made him reluctant. For most of his life, Cian had passed his days unnoticed by much of anyone. He wasn't sure how he felt about turning this to such a deadly advantage.

At first, Cian attempted to complete missions without harming anyone. He would distract, blind, or simply sneak by enemies in order to reach his objectives.

But Eulalia often accompanied him, and she would end up killing everybody anyway. He realized, eventually, that her way was the most efficient, particularly when certain creatures he had permitted to live began trying to kill him. One morning he had woken to find himself surrounded by angry kobolds, all demanding the immediate return of their candles. His pleas for diplomacy unheeded, Cian was forced to slaughter the entire tribe.

Following that incident, Eulalia had said to him, "Look, Cian, of course it is nicer to talk things out and try to collect your ancient relics and your missing necklaces that way, but you're gonna find in the world that a lot of folks just don't wanna hear it. I mean, y'know, if most of the stuff you and me are hired to do could be fixed with a dinner party, don't you think it'd all be solved already?"

"But it's so callous," he had mumbled weakly.

"It is a little bit, honey," she said. "And it's awfully nice of you to try the stealthy way. But I'm afraid it's just gonna get you killed. And then I would be real sad."

Those words had proven prophetic.

---

"Cian?" Eulalia said. "Allooo?"

He blinked. "Er. Yes. I suppose I am … still robbing people."

"Well, I … I'm glad you're not dead," she said softly. "Not entirely."

He could taste bile in the back of his throat again, and he growled at her, "I'm not."

He remembered why he had taken her in the first place, the question he wanted to ask.

"Why did you leave me, Eulalia?" Cian said. "Why did you disappear?"

She was affronted. "Because—because you didn't _need_ me anymore. You finished your training. You were great. I was getting in the way."

"That wasn't for you to decide," Cian said.

"What?"

The volume of his voice rose with every word, until the cave was ringing with Cian's accusation. "Whether or not I needed you. That wasn't your jurisdiction."

Eulalia shrank from him. "Cian, I …"

He was exposed and embarrassed. He had never admitted any feeling for her during their time together, not in so many words. He had done something foolish, had expected something when nothing was there. Even after all he had suffered, Cian couldn't shake that weakness.

He thrust Eulalia's polearm at her. "Forget it. Forget you met me. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"Cian!" Eulalia took the polearm and smacked his skull with it, hard. "Would you stop it and just wait a second?!"

He lunged and tackled her, setting both of his daggers against her neck. Cian bent low over her and spoke into her ear, "You don't need to say anything more, Eulie. I understand you perfectly."

For the first time, aggravation broke out over Eulalia's features. She kicked him off of her without hesitation and then it was she who pinned him, using the long handle of her polearm to bar his movement. "You're beginning to upset me, Cian! You haven't even let me talk! You're just jumping around all crazy and not letting me form a thought! You know that kind of thing takes me time."

"Say what you want, then," he spat.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know … I didn't know that my leaving would matter to you."

"I don't understand how you could think that," he said morosely.

"You were always so quiet," Eulalia said. "So quiet and gentle … and I started … I started to feel bad."

"Why?"

"I thought I was making you into someone you didn't want to be. But I just wanted to help you. I wanted to protect you. 'Cos the world we live in, it's … it's mean, y'know? It's real mean." Eulalia let the polearm drop and she sank to her knees. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you."

Cian was quiet for a minute, and then said, "You were right, though."

Eulalia looked up at him.

"If I had listened to you more carefully, this wouldn't have happened to me," Cian gestured across his chest, his bony fingers lingering over a gaping wound that still remained there.

"Cian …" Eulalia began.

But before she could ask the inevitable question, someone shouted outside.

"Ey, mon! Cian! Where you at, boy?"

"An'jin," Cian said in surprise.

"I told you he'd be okay," Eulalia said.

"Well I knew that, I just—"

"Are you over 'ere? Who you talkin' to?"

"Damn it," Cian said. "Eulalia, hide in that pool of water. Slip into the shadows. It wouldn't be good for anyone if he saw us talking."

Eulalia nodded and dove into the water just as An'jin blinked into the cave.

"Why'd you run out on us back dere?" An'jin said. "Not that the alliance had any kind of a chance regardless, but ya know, principles."

"I had something to do," Cian said.

"Dat so?" An'jin said shrewdly. "Have anythin' to do with whoever you was just talkin' wit?"

"I was talking to myself," Cian said. His only skill in the art of the lie was a perfect control over his tone, which was non-committal and firm. "Was looking for something in here."

"Did ya find it?" An'jin wasn't stupid, but maybe he was giving Cian a break—probably still in a good mood from their victory.

"Yes," Cian said. "I did."

"Dat night elf, though …"

Then again, maybe not.

" … she really gave it to me," An'jin said. "She get you, too?"

"I ran into her," Cian said. "The encounter didn't last long."

The pool of water bubbled, and Cian added quickly, "She was tough, though. Certainly very tough."

An'jin clapped a hand on Cian's shoulder. "Good work den, mon. I'll be seein' ya again."

Cian feared that this was more of a threat than a promise. There was very little love lost between the Forsaken and the trolls.

As soon as the mage had teleported out, Cian kneeled beside Eulalia's pool and called to her. "He's gone, Eulie."

When she did not immediately reply, Cian jumped into the water, worried that she had drowned. But she was at the bottom of the pool, picking another mushroom from between the rocks.

"I'm fine," she said when they surfaced. "See, I switched to my hydrocane thingy." She pointed to the blue staff that had temporarily replaced her polearm. "Kinda weird how that mage was looking for you."

"Yes," Cian said. "It is a little odd."

"I guess he was just concerned for you! That's nice."

"Concerned about, maybe," Cian said. "You know, we're not that close to the other races of the Horde …"

"How did you … I mean … what happened, anyway, Cian?" Eulalia said.

"I'm going to need a drink before I tell you that story."

Eulalia offered him a bottle of water, and he said, "I meant a_stiff_ drink." He paused. "No pun intended. Come on. Let's get out of this cave."


	2. Things to Do in Azeroth When You're Dead

NOTE: The character Ingomar does not belong to me, she belongs to the almighty Ali L. Plath. I am merely butchering--err, borrowing--her!

.II.  
Things to Do in Azeroth When You're Dead

Few places existed in Azeroth where an undead man and a night elf woman could converse without interference from angry guards. Luckily, Cian and Eulalia happened to be only a short ride away from one of these places.

Eulalia summoned a sinewy black nightsaber to carry her into the Barrens: its flanks and head were adorned with glimmering battle armor and its ferocious eyes gleamed with hungry cunning.

"Cian, please meet Mushpuff," Eulalia said, stretching across her saddle to give the slavering beast a hug. The cat roared appreciatively.

"You named your mount 'Mushpuff'?" Cian said in disbelief.

"Of course not, silly man," Eulalia replied. "He told me that was his name."

"Yes, of course he did, how could I have thought otherwise," Cian said dryly. He sat atop a skeletal warhorse, which emanated purplish fumes of an unearthly aura. Tattered drapes of armor hung from the horse's bones, and its eyes gleamed also—but it was a dull shine, the glow not of animation but re-animation. Its neigh was like an agonized scream, which Eulalia found utterly charming.

"And what do you call your horsie?" she cooed, more to the animal than him.

"Um … uh," Cian said, thinking quickly. "Deathfeet."

"What? No, that's not right," she said.

"And why not?" he returned defensively.

"Horsies wouldn't use the words 'death' and 'feet' all mixed up together, especially when they are already dead. Why would it want a reminder?"

"I don't bloody know then," Cian said. "It's a _horse_."

"I'll see if I can't get it out of him later," Eulalia purred at Cian's mount, which shook its bony head indifferently. "I don't have much experience with zombie animals, though."

"You can report back to me," Cian said.

Together they rode through Ashenvale and into the Barrens, although they maintained some distance from one another so as to avoid suspicious looks from the numerous young Horde who wandered the arid plains. Their eyes shifted from Eulalia to Cian, their emotions changing from blind hate to awed respect in record time. Excited shouts filled the road as Eulalia passed by, smiling with oblivious benevolence—many of them entreating Cian to kill the encroaching night elf.

"All in good time," he rumbled in Orcish. Brutish, guttural language.

"I am only here to love!" Eulalia yelled happily, which inspired another flurry of panicked and enraged assaults on Cian's person. A chorus of demands, in the form of the Horde's paranoid youth, chanted in his ear: kill her, kill her, KILL HER. The cries reached a fever pitch, and he shut the doors of his mind to block out any further messages. Still, the phrases echoed between his ears. Part of him wanted to watch over her, care for her, help her in whatever she set out to do. Part of him wanted to carve her into thirds.

He tried not to think about it.

They arrived in Ratched, the neutral goblin town on the Barrens coast, a few hours before sunset. Only in goblin cities could the warring factions of Alliance and Horde share an inn—or anything else, for that matter. Conflicts were inevitable, although not tolerated by the city's well trained guards. The goblins wanted money, not trouble.

Cian and Eulalia sat down at the bar and ordered drinks: black label rum for him and a jug of milk for her.

"Milk?" Cian said. "No, you're not having milk."

"What?" Eulalia said. "Why am I not having milk?"

"Because this is a _bar_, for _drinking_."

"Milk is a drink."

"At least put some ale in it or something."

"My sister once told me that my drinking anything named 'ale, mead, rum, grog, or any variation on those terms' would be a bad idea."

"Is your sister here?" Cian asked.

"No …" Eulalia said. "I guess not."

"Milk and ale for the night elf, then," Cian called to the bartender, a rough looking goblin with a myriad of tattoos on his biceps.

"Whatever," he said. "As long as you ain't gonna start brawlin' on account of it later."

"I'm not the brawling type, I assure you," Cian said.

Eulalia sniffed her drink tentatively, shrugged, and then downed half of it in one gulp. "Ah! That has a bit of a bite."

"You're really meant to sip it …" Cian said, awed that she hadn't spat it out.

"Ohh well. Anyways. Tell me what's been going on," Eulalia said. "Cause I know _something _happened, honey."

"A lot of things," Cian said. He drank deeply from his mug of rum. "Some of my memories are a little obscured, but …"

"Ach! Eulie! How are ya!" A robust female voice broke into their conversation, and Cian looked up from staring moodily into his booze to see a dwarf paladin clapping her arms around Eulalia's waist.

"Oh, Ingomar! I am super fine, and you?"

"Ah'm doin' alright," Ingomar replied, her speech slurred, thick with alcohol and her own natural accent. "I had a few pints on my way over here and I meant to have a few more before I went to bed and—" Ingomar paused, and noticed Cian. "Eulie!" she hissed. "Why are ya sittin' so near tae one of these walkin' corpses?"

"Well, we were talking," Eulalia said.

"Yes," Cian said. "Before you so rudely interrupted."

Ingomar grabbed the front of Eulalia's tabard and pulled her down so that her eyes were level with the dwarf's. "Eulie, what have I tol' ya about undead—including Forsaken?"

"Um," Eulalia said. "Something about fish. I think. It sounded tasty."

Ingomar rolled her eyes. "Well ye remembered the fish theme, I guess tha's about all I can hope fer. Look, Eulalia—the undead got no business bein' here. They're fishermen who can't get any fish and ought tae be reelin' in their lines."

"Okay …" Eulalia said slowly. "You're making me hungry."

"They canna be trusted! Look at'im—probably thinkin' a ways to dismember and devour ya right this second."

"No," Cian said mildly. "Not right this second."

"Why don't ye just jump into the Twisting Nether where ya belong, ya filthy bone-creature?" Ingomar snapped.

"Been there, tried that, got the breastplate," Cian said. "Didn't work."

"Try harder, then. Or at least don' be plaguin' innocent lasses like Eulie here with your devilry."

"Lady, what have I done to you? Did I kill and eat your family?" Cian leaned down and said with a wicked grin, "Because if I did, I'm not sorry."

"Light take you, you bastard!" Ingomar shouted. "This is what I mean, Eulie!"

"He is just making a joke," Eulalia said uncomfortably. She took another nervous gulp of her spiked milk and blinked hard as its effect shot to her brain. "I forgot we put stuff in this."

"Stuff? What stuff?" Ingomar said.

"Just some ale," Cian shrugged.

"Yer plyin' her with drink, are ya? By the Light, it's a good thing I happened to drop by," Ingomar said. "Eulalia, come away from there."

"But we were talking," Eulalia said. "He was telling me a story."

"I dinnae care if he was coronating you the Queen of Azeroth," Ingomar said. "He means you _no good_, lass."

"You know, I'm right here, and I understand you perfectly," Cian said.

Ingomar paid him no mind, until he said, "Why did you just happen to drop by, anyway?"

"Not that it's any o yer business, but Ah'm here to investigate those floatin' necropolises that've been poppin' up everywhere. I was on my way to Durotar."

"We're handling it," Cian said.

"That may be, lad, but a mission is a mission," Ingomar said. "Don' worry yer skull, Ah'm not gonna go spittin' on Thrall's throne or summat."

"Those things are scary," Eulalia said. "And they have all that green goo coming out the sides. Gross."

"Kel'Thuzad is fond of that sludgy poison," Cian said. "It's a primary decorative fixture in Naxxramas."

"I knooow," Eulalia said. Her voice was wobbly and a little higher in pitch. "I was always falling into it and everybody said Yooools that is NOT water, that is DEADLY GOO so stop splashing in it like it's a friendly puddle but I get excited and I slip you know how that goes."

She rapped her knuckles on the counter and said. "Bartender, more milk with stuff."

"You got it," he said. Cian had never heard a goblin tell anyone that they had had enough.

Ingomar sniffed the mug. "This is ale with a drop of milk mixed in. What're ye tryin' ta pull?"

"Nothing, madam," Cian said. "Why don't you join us?"

"Only tae keep an eye on th' proceedings," Ingomar said. She climbed onto the stool beside Eulalia and glowered at Cian.

"Go on with the shtorry," Eulalia said, laying her head down beside her mug. "I'm lishtening."

"Not long after you left, things got pretty bad … as I'm sure you remember."

"Prince Arthas went crazy," Eulalia mumbled.

"Yes. The situation for us—that is, humans—only worsened from there. But even before that, King Terenas ordered a conscription—every able-bodied person was to report for duty against the Scourge. Not that we had a choice, honestly. If we didn't fight, we would die eventually anyway," Cian said. "Or so was the prevailing thought at the time. I was put into Prince Arthas's regiment, which was looking for clues to the source of the plague in Lordaeron …"

When Cian arrived in Lordaeron, the plague's influence had only just begun to spread. Even as his contingent approached Andorhal, still ignorant of its infected granaries and the devastation soon ahead, Cian reflected on the tranquility of Tirisfal. The woods weren't haunted then, weren't overrun with moaning banshees and the specters of wandering souls. They were beautiful and unsullied, vibrant with flowers and birds. Still, an aura of dread and fear pervaded the little towns and the soldiers themselves. Cian likened those days to standing on a powderkeg and holding his breath: at any moment he would exhale and the scenery would explode.

He was nothing more than a foot soldier, but he was alert enough to know that something was terribly wrong when they approached Stratholme. They had set fire to the tainted silos in Andorhal, but Arthas rushed them on the path to the north, saying that they must make haste to the then vivacious city, for it was in terrible danger.

A few days before their arrival, Cian had met his first agents of the Scourge, in Corin's Crossing. He had never seen anything like the monsters he met in the Scourge armies: ghouls with bloody, gaping jaws and grasping mockeries of limbs, patchwork golems stitched together from dead flesh, lugging chains and axes while their intestines spilled out of their open bellies. Hissing wraiths that Cian could not see until their shadowy tendrils were slipping around his ankles, and worst of all, living necromancers—the members of the Cult of the Damned. He watched in sickened horror as his comrades were stuck down, only to be raised again, as mindless servants of the Lich King.

Cian wanted to run, to jump into the ocean and swim until he found a deserted island or died of exhaustion, he didn't care, as long as his corpse was pure. But he could not abandon the hopeless struggle, because if they did not fight, who would?

He concentrated his efforts on the traitorous humans, the ones who had willingly joined the Scourge in exchange for the promise of untold power. These he eviscerated with grim zest, the only killings for which he never felt any remorse. At least the rest of the Scourge army was made up of unthinking slaves. These men and women knew what they were doing and delighted in it. Their treachery was unforgivable.

The night before they reached the city, Cian learned exactly why they were rushing to Stratholme. Some of the troops were clustered around a blazing campfire and talking excitedly about a conversation overhead between Arthas and Jaina Proudmoore.

"Did you notice that the silos in Andorhal weren't exactly full?" one soldier said. "A lot of that grain was already on its way to Stratholme when we got there. We're trying to reach the city before it's completely infected."

"What if we don't?" another soldier asked.

"I don't know," the first soldier replied. "Let's hope against that."

Unfortunately, when they reached the city, they were too late. Cian followed Arthas and the rest of his forces through the streets with a swelling knot in his throat, his stomach churning like a maelstrom. The people were already eating freshly baked bread, cutting up cooled pies, mixing the grain into bowls. Within a few days the city would be transformed into a necropolis.

Jaina and Arthas argued with growing intensity at the front of the clot of troops. At length, Jaina stormed away and Arthas turned to Uther the Lightbringer to begin the argument afresh. Cian strained to hear, but he had a pretty fair guess at what was happening.

The assembled crowd began to divide along a fault line, and someone close to the front shouted, "Burn it! Burn it to the ground!"

Horrified, Cian stumbled as people rushed forward, jostling him this way and that. Soldiers grabbed peasants and lanced them clean through, their eyes zealous and unashamed.

"What's going on?" Cian whispered, his whole body trembling as more innocent people were slaughtered in front of him. Torches were lit and thrown into the houses and shops, and as the inhabitants fled they were caught and murdered by Arthas's men.

"Don't just stand there," a soldier growled. "Kill them. It's for their own good."

"But they haven't done anything wrong …"

The soldier grabbed a sobbing woman by the hair and sliced off her head. "That's not the point."

Blood gathered in pools at Cian's feet, and he turned to run. He would not be a part of this madness.

Screams and fire choked the air, and the full understanding of what was happening struck Cian like mortar. The Prince was destroying the city. He could hear the justifications over the panicked wails of the citizens: they were all infected, they would soon become thralls to the Lich King, they had to be dispatched. Even if he was helpless for another solution, Cian could not abide by this massacre of unarmed people. People who, not an hour before, were sitting down to family tables to break the bread that would ruin them. Discussing the weather, exchanging embraces, worrying over their clothes, drinking milk. Their houses were rubble now, and their bodies were buried underneath the smoldering ashes.

Cian paused to gasp for breath, as the thick air was now completely shrouded in cinders and smoke. A still living peasant tumbled out of her house—just a young woman, no older than him.

"I don't want to die," she cried. "Please—please, don't kill me, I don't want to—"

"I won't," he rasped. "I won't hurt you. But you've got to run."

She clutched his sleeve fearfully. "I can't see anything. I feel sick."

"This way," he said, and they moved together through the blackened streets of Stratholme, towards the entrance. Cian hid the girl with his cloak, and let the chaos handle the rest. They were not stopped.

"Thank you," the girl said. She sank to the grass and vomited.

Cian looked away politely, but when she made no sound, he looked back. She was unconscious.

"Damn it," he muttered. Cian picked up the girl and carried her away from the city, into the nearby woods. Two thoughts stung his mind. First, he was a deserter. Second, he had assumed responsibility for this girl in some intangible but tacit way, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

When the young woman woke, she said her name was Nina. He brought her cold water from a river to soothe her fever.

"It's all gone, isn't it?" she said. "It's all burnt up."

Cian nodded, guilty by association.

"I miss my mother," Nina said. She drank the water.

"I'm sorry," Cian whispered. He had nothing else to offer.

He built a fire for them, wishing as he rubbed the sticks together than he had trained as a mage. He tried to focus solely on the creation of the flames in order to stopgap the anxiety that loomed over him. His only idea was to take Nina to the capital of Lordaeron, but of course there were several problems that might make this impossible. Scourge agents were everywhere, and Cian had to admit that Nina's becoming one of them within three days was a very real threat. She was clearly ill, thought whether from stress or the plague, Cian couldn't guess.

Nina swayed between varying states of consciousness. She asked him to tell her stories, so he described his life up to that point—how he had started out as a petty thief, how he had become a full-fledged rogue, how he had met a strange purple elf who could kill a man with one arrow but cried for hours over injured bunny rabbits.

"An interesting life," Nina mumbled dreamily. "I'm merely a poor baker's daughter."

"Stratholme is a beautiful city to grow up in though," Cian said. "Or, well, it was."

Nina's laughter was hoarse. "Yes … yes it was." She drew her knees to her chest and moaned. "I feel like I'm shriveling."

Cian held out a bowl of warm soup, which she consumed greedily.

They spent a tense night in the woods. As Cian stoked the fire he felt beset on all sides. If Nina's illness persisted, she would be undead by midday tomorrow. But before that they could be attacked by a wandering band of ghouls or the bloodcrazed soldiers of Arthas himself.

Yet the night passed without event, and when Nina woke she was suffused with energy.

"I feel much better, Cian," she said, hugging him tightly. "Thank you for nursing me back to health. I want to repay you."

Cian's throat closed as a dagger slid into his heart. Nina smiled up at him. "I offer you the Lich King's embrace."

"C-cult," he spat, as his blood spattered onto the knife's blade.

"Yes," Nina said. "My whole family." Cian's body slumped, falling against her of its own momentum. She stepped away and let the dagger remain. "Welcome to the fold."

"The knife was coated in the plague," Cian said. "I rose as this monstrosity and I served the Lich King until I, like the other Forsaken, regained my will."

Eulalia scrambled off her stool and crashed into Cian, gripping him about the neck, her head on his chest, sobbing profusely. "That is the saddest song played on the tiniest flute!"

"Aye, a tragic tale indeed," Ingomar agreed. "Especially since yer still around."

Cian patted Eulalia's back lightly and said, "Yes, my tragedy is eternal, I'm afraid."

"Okay," Eulalia blubbered, "Isn't thish … thish that you have, which is shuffering …" she struggled with the thought like a woman giving birth, "Itsh—a disease. Yesh?"

"I suppose so," Cian said.

"Sho—there—there musht be a cure!"

"Allegedly that's what yer Apothecaries are workin' on," Ingomar said. "But we've got reports that say a lot different."

Cian shrugged. "I'm not privy to such things."

"Don't be feignin' ignorance with _me_, lad," Ingomar said. "I know what they've had ye do—the results of yer experiments! Capturin' a mountaineer and feedin' him a pumpkin laced with deadly poison … Oh, I know, allrigh'."

He shrugged again. "I can't help what the Dark Lady chooses to do with prisoners of war."

Eulalia, meanwhile, was beating on the counter, her eyes unnaturally bright, her lavender skin flushed. "I've decided! We are gonna find a cure for thish plague."

"There's already a cure for undeath," Ingomar brandished her hammer at Cian. "_More death_."

"Nooo," Eulalia howled. "I want you … I want you to get better, Cian."

"I appreciate the thought, but—"

Eulalia slammed her first down so hard that their glasses shook and the bartender glanced their way. "No! No. Don't argue with me. Do not _you_ argue with … with_me_. We're gonna do it. I'm gonna … I'm doing it. Shtarting tomorrow."

She buried her head in her arms. Cian looked from her to Ingomar. The paladin was downing another mug of beer with gusto.

"Ah'm just gettin' started," she growled.

"I thought you were only having a bit before bed?"

"Aye, ten pints is a lil shabby," Ingomar said. "I'll have to make up fer it later."

The inn was divided down the center by an invisible but universally acknowledged line. On one side were the soft, downy beds favored by night elves, with bureaus decorated with gently burning candles and old books. On the other, hammocks were strung in rows on the walls—simple and efficient, preferred by the Horde.

Ingomar observed warily as Cian lifted Eulalia from her seat and carried her to one of the night elf beds. He drew back the sheets and tucked her in, removing her helmet and undoing the tight ponytail of her hair. Eulalia fumbled for his hands. "You're still gentle."

"And look what it's gotten me," he replied softly.

Cian returned to the bar and allowed his gaze to unfocus. He rarely slept anymore. He only stared down space.

stay tuned for part 3


	3. Touched: Hallow's End

N.B.: This is an interlude, of sorts, in that it does not take place directly after the previous chapter. It happens though. AT SOME POINT. Don't look at me like that. It's _seasonal_. The next actual chapter, the one that resumes the action of the first, is mostly written, just not typed. Soon. Until then, I hope you find this an amusement.

Hallow's End: Touched

Cold water splashed Eulalia's face as she dove into the barrel of floating apples, her sharp teeth searching for red skin to break. She bit into a large apple and brought it up, grinning so wide that the fruit threatened to fall. Opening one of her bags, she spat out the apple, and it tumbled inside amongst pieces of candy corn, bloody ogre heads, chocolate bars and myriad clumps of herbs.

"I don't understand why the Alliance celebrate All Hallow's End," Cian said, when they stopped at the outskirts of Southshore and he could drop his stealth. Eulalia and Ingomar had wanted to trick-or-treat at the inn. He thought he would wait until they were finished before he threw the bomb he was holding, which Ingomar eyed warily. "It's our holiday. Around this time a few years ago was when we Forsaken regained our free will."

"But there's candy," Eulalia said, as if this explained everything. "And apples. See?" She opened her bag, and he saw the apple, juice still dripping from where she bit into it. The bite marks were neat and deep, like what a vampire would leave on a victim's neck. Well, night elves did have fangs, not that Cian could ever imagine Eulalia draining someone of blood by any method other than a volley of arrows to the stomach.

"Olidays are 'olidays," Ingomar said. "Must ye whine even durin' a party?" She pointed a wand at him, and he suddenly metamorphosed into a bat. Ingomar laughed. "There's a pleasant skin for ya!"

Cian chattered, and flew towards Southshore with the bomb clutched in his little claws. "I must do my duty as a Forsaken, and throw this stinkbomb into your filthy human settlement."

He attempted to hurl the bomb, but a bat's wings weren't well suited to hurling, so instead he just dropped it huffily on the grass. It cracked open and a foul, sulfuric cloud spewed forth, orange in color and devastating in odor. Ingomar's eyes watered and she wondered if her divine shield would protect her from the smell, which was a mad alchemist's stew of rotten meat festering with maggots, old eggs left to crust, wet fur, and decayed flesh, all seasoned with blood, piss, and bile.

Eulalia cried and hid her face in her groaning cat's fur. "Why would you do that?"

"Duty," Cian chirruped.

Ingomar stepped forward bravely, armed with a scroll. She read it aloud and the scroll shimmered, releasing a burst of pine fresh energy at the offensive cloud. The odor and its smoke dissipated, leaving behind only the sweet aroma of burning autumn leaves and disinfectant.

"Killjoy," Cian said.

"I'm gonna get me some candy for 'at," Ingomar said. "By the way, poof!"

She waved her wand at Eulalia, who became a human ghost.

"I wonder if I can walk through walls!" Eulalia said. She marched up to the Southshore barn and attempted to pass through the doors of a horse's stall. "Ow."

The horse looked down on her with pity.

"It's just a costume, Eulie," Cian said. "You're not really a ghost."

"But I can see through my hand," Eulalia insisted. "And I'm so short. I never realized how short humans are. How sad for them."

"Wot's this about short?" Ingomar said. She munched a pumpkin-shaped candy, which did her the favor of turning her into a male human pirate. "Nice."

"I have to report back to the Wickerman festival," Cian said. He discarded his bat form. "As much as I enjoy impersonating a flying rodent, they're unfortunately unable to summon mounts."

"That's a party we were invited to crash. Lead the way," Ingomar said.

"And what are you going to do?" Cian said warily.

"Set the place on fire?" Ingomar suggested.

"Nooo," Eulalia giggled. "It's only recon—reconna—uhm—looking around."

"I suppose my mere acquaintance with you branded me a traitor a long time ago," Cian said, shrugging. "Follow along, then."

Tirisfal Glades, where the festival was held every year, was some distance away from Southshore. Getting there required passage through Silverpine Forest, which, like the Glades, was haunted by specters of the past—among other things.

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived in Silverpine, which prompted Ingomar to recommend stopping for the night.

"There's a human village closeby," she said. "We can rest there."

"We?" Cian said.

Ingomar pulled a different want from her bag and anointed Cian with it, transforming him into a human pirate. "Aye, we."

Interestingly, the costume bore some resemblance to Cian's actual human self—thick, dark hair, pale skin, small, scrutinizing features. He felt his face with quiet pleasure. The disguise was total. His flesh was warm and soft, and for a moment, even Cian thought there was real blood flowing through his veins. He permitted himself to indulge the fantasy, if only for a moment. Cian missed humanity, like he supposed most of his kind did. He thought their situation was a bit like being rich and then coming home one day to find everything you had robbed from you. It was a worse situation than if you had been born poor, because at least then you would never have known anything different. His people had memory: they had to exist with the sweetness of life on their tongues but without the ability to taste it.

Pyrewood Village was their destination. It was a small village bordered by a tall, spiked wooden fence, except for one house, which stood outside the wall and slightly off to the east. Cian noted it as they rode up to the gates: it was foreboding somehow, and all the windows were dark. Occupied by a hermit, perhaps, or was it too tainted by remnants of the plague? Pyrewood was one of the only pockets of human life to resist the plague of undeath, but Cian was unaware of the secret to their immunity. Still, he had heard stories.

Before they went into town, he said, "The humans of this place are a little odd … even for humans."

"Why d'ye say that?" Ingomar said. "They're perfectly friendly."

"I know."

They were, in fact, gushingly friendly. Everyone they passed as they walked to the inn greeted them with wide, almost wild smiles. Some waved, as though these strangers were old friends.

"They're touched," Cian said. "And they attack us viciously."

"Humans tend to do that," Ingomar pointed out.

"No, but—I've seen other forsaken torn limb from limb by these villagers. Sometimes with the vital bones missing." Cian shuddered. "I can't imagine what they do with our remains."

Eulalia made chomping sounds. "I've heard femurs are very tasty."

Cian thought back to the apple as Ingomar said, "Lass, I … no. I dinnae want to know."

"What?" Eulalia said. "A troll told me. He was planning to eat mine, see. Had me tied to a palm tree and everything."

Cian shifted uncomfortably on his mount. He liked that image and was therefore repelled by it. "That sounds like a tricky spot."

"Oh, but we had the nicest talk," Eulalia said. "Then Kitteh bit off his foot and chewed through my ropes while the troll ran 'round screaming." She sighed. "I had to

kill him, I'm afraid. Trolls have very good throwing arms and I didn't want an axe to the head, yanno."

"Tragic," Cian said.

The Pyrewood inn was almost empty, except for the innkeeper and the cook. The latter presided over a long marble slab piled high with hunks of meat, which he was zealously addressing with a machete big enough to decapitate a bear. He grinned at the trio as they entered, and called to the innkeeper, "Guests!"

"Helloo!" The innkeeper, an attractive young woman with brown hair tied in a bun and wide, green eyes, curtsied before them. "Welcome to our humble inn! What can I do for you, friends?"

Cian caught flecks of gold in the innkeeper's eyes as he watched her gaze shift from guest to guest. Her irises were curved, like a moon or a scythe. He winced at her shrill, effusive voice, but Ingomar and Eulalia didn't seem put off at all.

"We'd like a coupla rooms if you please, lassie," Ingomar said.

"Wonderful! Of course! This way!" The innkeeper directed them to the stairs. She seemed incapable of speaking without exclamation.

The rooms were ordinary enough. Generous beds, a few bookshelves, a pitcher of water and a bowl. Some daisies in a vase.

"Dinner will be served in an hour!" The innkeeper said. "Please do join us!"

Cian frowned at the vase of flowers, and realized that all the petals were brown and the stems gray and limp. Dead flies floated in the water pitcher, and a thin layer of dust coated the bedspread. No one had actually slept in these rooms for months, possibly years.

Cian sat down at the table in the corner of the room. "Am I the only one who feels something off about this place? I mean, look at it."

"So it doesn't get much business," Ingomar said. "It's a wee bit out 'o the way, ya know."

"I think it is cute," Eulalia said. She sniffed the dead daisies. "These need some sun."

"They need to be mulched is what they need," Cian said. "I don't even think I've been dead as long as those flowers."

"Look, we're nae stayin' long," Ingomar said. "Just the night. If ye don't like it, sleep outside."

"No," Cian said. He swallowed and then mumbled, "I'm not leaving you two."

"Wot's 'at?"

He gritted his teeth. "Since neither of you seem to understand our present situation, I have no intention of leaving you alone."

Eulalia kissed the top of his head. "You're the sweetest zombie I know."

He blushed, but replied gruffly, "I prefer to be called living impaired."

Cheerfully ignoring the storm of dust that rose over the comforter, Ingomar climbed into bed, after shedding her armor into a pile on the floor.

"Dunno about you lot, but I'm spent," she announced. "Save me a bit 'o dinner for the mornin', eh?"

"I'll steal you a femur," Cian said darkly.

"Thanks, yer a peach."

Eulalia sat down across from him, drumming her nails on the book open in front of her. Because she was illiterate, it wasn't long before trying to make sense of the pages lulled her to sleep.

Carefully, Cian extracted the book from beneath her chin. Printed on the spine in gold embossed letters was the title, Being a Brief History of Pyrewood and Its Surrounding Lands. Cian thought reading might help pass the time and calm him down, but when he turned back to the book's pages he realized that someone had literally clawed out the text.

Deep gouges scored all of the pages, as though the writing had so offended a particular reader that he saw no other recourse but to savage the book.

More annoyed than disturbed, Cian put the book aside and jabbed Eulalia on the center of her head, digging his forefinger into her scalp. She twitched. "Bring me all the lozenges … shear the fuzz off first—but bring them!"

Cian drew blood. She opened her eyes.

"Cian, I know I might look it, but really I am not a pincushion," she said, massaging her scalp. He sucked his finger, tasted her blood. It had a pleasant copper tang.

"What's the matter then? I was having a fun dream. I was Queen of the Galaxy, you see."

Cian wasn't sure he wanted to know what such a world would encompass. He had a feeling it would be bright enough to scar. He said, "I think we should leave."

"But I want to stay for dinner," Eulalia protested.

"Eulie," Cian said. "I think we're dinner."

"Don't be silly. Who would eat you?"

"Dogs love chewing on old bones," Cian muttered.

"Ach! Would you two keep it down? Ah'm tryin' to sleep," Ingomar shouted from the bed.

"It truly baffles me as to how either of you have survived this long," Cian said.

"We've managed better than you, haven't we? Ha ha!" Ingomar chortled.

"Your wit sparkles and blinds," Cian replied. "Can you not see the danger we're in? It's dark and I haven't heard a sound anywhere. Not people in the street, not _food cooking_, nothing."

"Oi, maybe they had a hard day and went to sleep."

"Okay, explain this book then," Cian tossed it at Ingomar, who caught it nimbly.

"Some critics are harsher than others," she said.

Cian groaned. "Listen. This place is not—"

A loud, somewhat frantic knocking on their door interrupted him. "Hello in there?! Won't you come down to dinner?! Won't you please!"

"… right," Cian said. The voice had only a passing resemblance to the innkeeper's chipper trill—it was now guttural, scratchy, and desperate. Any sense of cheer

was forced and artificial.

"Maybe I see your point," Ingomar said slowly.

"Dinner! Dinner! Dinner!" the voice yelped. Claws broke through the door, and the innkeeper snarled as she tore through the wood. "Dinner!"

Cian smashed the window with his fist. "Run."

The innkeeper, now transformed into a loping, wolvish beast, broke the door into splinters. Ingomar leapt off the bed, grabbing her armor. Cian waited by the shattered window for her and Eulalia, not jumping until the two of them had safely hit the grass below.

He barely escaped the desperate reach of the innkeeper, and in fact she managed to take a chunk out of his shoulderpads, which she ripped apart lustily as she bound after them. Mournful, starved howls rose up from every house in the village, and the town square filled with the blue-furred lupine monsters.

"Worgen," Cian spat.

"Elune bless you," Eulalia said cheerfully.

"No—Worgen—that's what they are. These ones are werewolves … but most of them are just beasts."

"Keep running!" Cian shouted as the town mobilized, and droves of Worgen chased them from the village. They ran on four legs, in a fiercely fast gallop, howling as

they pursued with their jaws unclenched and dripping spittle and their long tongues lapping the air in anticipation.

The innkeeper led the pack, still screeching about dinner. The butcher was beside her, his bloody machete in one paw.

Ingomar clutched her armor to her chest, panting. "So much for a nap!"

"I told you there was something weird about them," Cian said.

Eulalia gasped, "Their fur looks soft, though! I want to pet it."

"Just keep running, Eulie," Cian said.

"Aye, but where are we running to?" Ingomar said.

Cian recalled the gloomy house just outside the village. He veered off in that direction, with Ingomar, Eulalia, and their ravenous hosts close behind. Surprisingly, the

worgen began to taper off as Cian approached the house.

He reached the front door and paused for breath, feeling steeped in irony as he gulped air. Contrary to popular belief, his body did require minimum amounts of oxygen to keep functioning. Not much. But some. Although he was still in better shape than Ingomar or even Eulalia. Ingomar gripped her knees, her face red and shining with sweat. Eulalia leaned against the door, sighing deeply.

The worgen cowered. They hissed and spat, but would not close the distance between themselves and their prey. It took a moment, but then Cian understood—the house. They were afraid of the house.

Its door swung open, revealing only shadows.

"Phew, thank goodness," Eulalia said. "I could do with a sit." She walked in, merrily.

Putting aside the slavering horde of hungry wolf creatures for the moment, Cian ran in after her.

"Light preserve us," Ingomar muttered, before following.

The door shut behind them and the worgen, for the most part, left them to their fate.

Inside the house there was, at first, darkness. Cian groped the wall in consternation, worried that he could not see the light which spilled from Eulalia's eyes.

He stumbled into a brick mantelpiece, and then crouched beneath, feeling old logs. Ingomar bent beside him. He heard flint against tinder, and the fireplace was lit.

"If I 'ad some spices I could cook us a bit 'o fish," she joked.

"Where's Eulalia?" Cian said urgently. "Did you see her?"

"No lad," Ingomar said. "But she canna have got far. Let's 'ave a look 'round."

The fire provided some insight into their surroundings. A table and two chairs were in front of the hearth, and next to that were two hooks, from which two tattered traveling capes, one blue and one green, hung. Straw and leaves had accumulated on the floorboards, so that their steps crackled. Cian did not like this. The noise announced their presence, and he wasn't sure he wanted the house to know they were there. Not that it could be helped anymore.

In the corner a set of stairs led to the second floor. Overturned chairs blocked the way, and Cian noticed several poorly used, open books lying around them.

While Ingomar put her armor back on, Cian retrieved one of the books, recognizing its shape and color. It was another copy of Pyrewood's history, except this one seemed unmolested except for the wear of age and moisture. Cian wondered how long it had been there, gathering motes of mold, its pages curling and yellowing.

It was turned to a specific page. Cian read:

THIS BEING A HISTORY ON SOME SURROUNDINGS AND INCIDENTS RELATING TO OUR TOWN—

SPECIFICALLY A NOTE ON THE TRAGEDY OF ROLAND—

ANGELICA, LOVED BY ROLAND AND VINCERO BOTH, WAS WON BY HER FIRST SUITOR. HOWEVER, SHE WAS NOT PERMITTED TO LIVE PEACEFULLY WITH HER LOVE, FOR VINCERO WAS MUCH DISMAYED BY THEIR UNION.

The remainder of the last paragraph was smeared beyond recognition, by what Cian assumed to be moisture collected after years of lying on a damp floor. He dropped the book into his packs. Eulalia wasn't anywhere on the first floor, that much was certain. He made for the stairs.

Ingomar called for her. "Eulie! Euls! E!"

"Shh," Cian hissed. "Stop your yelling."

"Why?" Ingomar said. "Are ye scared?"

"Discretion is the better part of valor," Cian replied, in a whisper. "This house has a presence."

"Aye, it radiates unholiness," Ingomar agreed. "But then, so do you."

"Har," Cian said. He eyed the steps. Was she up there, or had the house somehow consumed her? The possibility unsettled him deeply, even angered him, but whether it was out of concern for her, or a sense of possession regarding her demise, he couldn't say. Part of him, he assured himself, was genuinely concerned with her well-being. But another part was thinking, how dare this manifestation seek to determine her life, the control of which should so obviously be his exclusive privilege? This was arrogance, perhaps, and a little bit of sadism, something dark and sinister, formed from the black roots in his heart. Desire, control, desire for control—it was difficult for him to separate the two.

But what it came down to, what you got when you boiled away the trappings of intention, was that he had to find her.

He walked up the steps. The second floor had only two rooms—one with a long dinner table that took up most of the space, and connecting to it, a bedroom.

Ingomar hovered behind him, peering over his shoulder.

"Don't see'er," Ingomar whispered.

Cian stepped forward. The candles on the table lit, and Cian though he could discern a human form sitting at the head chair. He squinted, and the outlines faded slowly, like a dirty glass doused with water.

From the bedroom, there was a rustle, as of skirts. Beside him, Ingomar shuddered.

"If not for Eulie I'd be makin' a run for it," she said.

The windows were so dark with grime and dead leaves that it was impossible to see out of them. The candles provided all the light, but as Cian and Ingomar moved past them, they went out, leaving behind swirling trails of smoke.

Inside the bedroom, there was an open wardrobe, a bureau, and a large bed. Eulalia sat on the edge of the bed, fingering a small carving knife. Her armor was gone, replaced by a white dress with a skirt that fanned around her lower body, like a blanket. The dress's sleeves dangled off her wrists, and her hands were gloved. The dress's silver embroidery glowed with an otherworldly aura, which bathed Eulalia's lavender skin in a sickly sheen.

She looked up at Cian and Ingomar. To Cian, she said, "Roland? Is that you?"

Cian blinked. He held out his arm, checked his body. The human disguise remained. He had almost forgotten about it.

"Eulie, it's me, Cian," he said. "Who's Roland?"

This was disingenuous. Cian knew, he recalled the book immediately.

Eulalia shook her head. She spoke to the knife. "I carved the trees with this. I carved the trees, and I ruined everything. But I had to. You understand, Roland? You understand that I had to."

Eulalia's voice was tense and articulate. She was obviously possessed.

"No … I don't understand," Cian said truthfully.

Eulalia rose from the bed, still carrying the knife. She glided over to Cian, slipped her arms around his waist.

"I had to," she repeated. "Everyone shunned you, I know. We were all shunned, you see. All three of us. But I had to do it."

Eulalia leaned in close, her lips brushing against his throat. Cian shivered uncomfortably.

"My dear, we weren't meant to be."

Eulalia gripped his wrist, pinned him back against the wall.

Ingomar stood aside, adrift in confusion.

Eulalia drove the knife into wall and took Cian's other wrist. He struggled against her, but her already considerable strength had multiplied tenfold.

She kissed him then, and it wasn't unlike when he had kissed her—Cian tasted anger, resentment, need—and the bite of her fangs. She bit into his lower lip, smiling against his mouth as he winced in pain.

But these emotions didn't belong to Eulalia. They belonged to the spirit which possessed her. They were ancient feelings, revived by a host to inhabit, but they were from the ground, they were buried in dirt and existing in pieces. Cian's feelings were present and persistent, and they belonged to him.

Eulalia's nails cut his wrists, and Cian was surprised by the trickle of red blood. His costume was masterful in its deception. He wondered if he really did look like the Roland mentioned in the book.

"He loved me," she said. "But you forced me."

Eulalia pulled out the knife, and Cian, being a veteran of stabs to the chest, recognized Eulalia's expression and wrenched free in the half second that he wasn't fully pinned. Eulalia lunged and missed.

"Get hold of yourself, lass!" Ingomar cried finally. Her grasp of the situation was tenuous, but one thing was clear—an evil had taken residence in her friend, and it was her duty to drive it out.

Eulalia stared at Ingomar without feeling. Here was a stranger, said the twist of her mouth. "Stay out of this." She advanced on Cian.

"You pretend ignorance … but you knew—it was I, I who carved the trees," Eulalia said. "Not Vincero. Me."

There was a noise from the dinner table, of plates breaking. Eulalia looked around wildly, her carving knife raised to strike.

Cian darted towards the table, unsure if it meant safety, but at least it meant a distraction. He stumbled through a ghost that could have been his twin. Or at least, twin to the costume he wore.

Eulalia looked from Cian to the ghost in confusion, and Ingomar took the opportunity to stun the night elf with her mace.

"Sorry, lass," Ingomar said, as Eulalia wilted, her body swaying uselessly. Ingomar plucked the knife from her fingers and stepped back. "I canna cleanse the spirit unless it is willin' ta go."

The ghost spoke. "No, Angelica, I didn't know that you had carved the trees. How could you betray me …?"

"Wait a mo'," Ingomar said. "What's all this carvin' tree madness. This better not be a lumber dispute."

Roland's ghost turned to Ingomar. "You have no stake in this."

"The hell I don'!" Ingomar said. "That's my friend your lassie is controlling, ghost! I'd damn well better be hearing some explanations right quick, or you're about to

find your arse exorcised into next week."

Now that the threat was visible and named, Ingomar's fear had evaporated. Nameless forces were one thing, but ghosts? Ghosts were easy.

Roland scowled at her, but seemed to take her threat as genuine. "Many years ago, before the plague touched these lands, I loved Angelica. And she loved me."

Eulalia's fists clenched.

"But Vincero loved her also, and though Angelica and I were to be married, he would not keep his peace!" Roland slammed his ethereal palm on the table. "He devised a plot. He carved his and Angelica's names into every tree surrounding the village, along the most frequented walking paths."

"No!" Eulalia shouted, the stun having worn off. "It was I who did that, Roland! Loved me? Loved me?" Eulalia's face contorted with fury. She hissed in a low voice, "You forced me to your bed and from that a child began to grow inside of me. I had no choice."

Roland stared her down. "I forced you into nothing. You said you loved me."

"Yes—because if I didn't, you would have killed me!"

Roland swept the candles off the table. They crashed to the floor in a waxy, melting heap, and the house sighed, as though it had seen this all before.

"You deserved it," he spat. "Traitorous wench."

Eulalia lunged again, but passed through the ghost and landed on her stomach across the table. "Damn you!"

Ingomar and Cian watched this scene helplessly. There seemed no way to free Eulalia of the angry spirit.

"What do you hope to do, Angelica?" Roland sneered. "Damn me? In case you've forgotten, we're already damned."

"And you should be," Eulalia said. "But why I? Why I?" and she began to sob.

He smiled nastily. "Perhaps the gods felt an eternity with me to be a fitting punishment for your betrayal. Trapped in your wedding dress too, I see. Irony and fate

are on my side, my love."

Enraged, Eulalia threw a plate at his head. He laughed as it hit the wall behind him and shattered.

The dress, Cian thought. It was the garment which had the power. He tackled her from behind, startling her so much that before she could react she was pinned to the floor. "Ingomar!" he shouted. "A little help!"

"What is this! Take your hands off of me!" Eulalia said, struggling. He strained against her ferocity, but he and Ingomar were able to subdue her.

"Got to get that dress off her," he grunted.

"Now's not the time for 'at," Ingomar said.

"It's what controlling her!" he snapped.

"Oh, righ'," Ingomar said. "Well then, let me unzip you, lass."

Eulalia thrashed mightily, but in vain—she could not handle both Cian pinioning her arms and Ingomar's vice grip on her shoulders. Ingomar peeled the dress down and kicked it aside. It shimmered on the floor.

Disturbingly, the light in Eulalia's eyes blacked out for a moment. Cian squeezed her hand, and she exhaled, then said, "Thanks!"

"Thank Uther," Ingomar said.

Eulalia cracked her neck. "That lady was soo angry."

A woman's spirit rose from the dress. "Curse you. Curse all of you."

From downstairs, they heard a door open. Everyone paused as heavy footsteps moved around the lower story, and then began to ascend the staircase.

"So you're still here," said the newcomer, a thin, elderly man with gray hair and sallow skin. He was holding the traveling cloaks. "I thought it might be so."

"Vincero," the female spirit breathed.

"You're alive," Roland said. "And untouched by the plague, it appears."

"Touched by something else," Vincero said. "You know, it's dawn outside."

"What's that matter to us?" Roland said. "We have been trapped together in this darkness for almost thirty years."

"Would that I had died in our confrontation along with you, Roland," Vincero said. "Would that our destructions had been mutual, so you could be rotting in hell and

I could at last find peace with Angelica."

"You never visit," Angelica said mournfully. "I hide in my dress every day and night."

"I cannot, usually," he said. "The villagers believe this house curses anyone who enters it, because of what happened here. If I called here without good reason, they would tear me apart upon my return."

"What exactly did happen here?" Cian said.

"Aye," Ingomar said. "After all this trouble, I want to know."

Eulalia, who had been rummaging through the wardrobe for her armor, called to them, "Yay, storytime!"

"In this house, Roland took the dignity of someone I loved," Vincero said steadily. "In this house, that person killed herself after being forced to return to him, and in my rage, I took revenge."

"If you're the survivor, why is the history so off?" Cian took out his copy of the Pyrewood history and opened it to the proper page.

"It's true that history is written by the victors," Vincero said. "But Roland was the son of the magistrate. I was exiled for my act, until the plague came. That book was written in the interim."

"Why were you spared an undeath?" Roland said.

"Because I, like the other villagers, am now Worgen." He grinned ferally at Ingomar, Cian, and Eulalia. "We made a pact with Arugal and his … children. Now we, too, are part of the family."

"Will you suffer for this?" Angelica said.

"No, my love," Vincero said. "I volunteered to find out what happened to our dinner. Knowing the history of this house, the magistrate agreed to let me go … likely hoping I would not return, either. But it seems the mystery was not so mysterious after all."

Cian stiffened.

"And really, I came here for you … to free you," Vincero went on. He held up the traveling cloaks. "I have learned much since we last knew each other. These possessions are the artifacts which help bind your souls to this world. However, you are too close to them to be able to destroy them yourselves—but if someone who still lives does so, you will be free to walk down your intended path."

He smiled at Angelica as he tore the green cloak. "Find peace, my love."

He picked up the dress and pulled it apart as well. Angelica's spirit began to fade as the embroidery unraveled. "Thank you for coming to see me ..." she said, as

her image melted into the air.

"You think yourself clever, then?" Roland said. "You think you can simply return here and control everything, just as you tried to do when we were all alive? You are mistaken. You are thirty years too late. Perhaps Angelica has moved on, but I've no intention of leaving. And now that she's left, I will make certain this house is feared."

The table and chairs shook, the windows rattled, the house groaned.

"None of you are leaving this house ali—"

Vincero tore the blue cloak, and Roland disappeared midsentence. "Save it for hell, Roland."

"Um …" Cian said. "Thank you?"

"Oh, don't thank me," Vincero said. "As I told you, I was sent to find what became of you. Now that I know you're alive, I must tell the others." He gave them another feral grin. "But since you allowed me to resolve this ancient conflict without fear of punishment, I'll let you have a head start."

At that moment, Cian's human guise expired. He grinned back at Vincero, a toothy, too wide smile that distorted his bloodless face. As he slipped behind Vincero and drove his daggers into the man's back, he said, "Oh, but, I'm not exactly alive."

Vincero fell to the floor, his blood pooling around him.

Ingomar rubbed her temples. "Let's jes go."

"I'm not really sure what happened there, but it is pretty smelly in this place," Eulalia said. She stepped over Vincero's body. "Did you have to kill him, Cian? He seemed like a nice old man."

"You have an odd definition of nice," Cian said. "Anyway, now he can be with his true love or whatever."

Cian left the history book on Vincero's back.

True love, pfah. More like true obsession, true rage, true wreckage. That was true love, he thought, nothing but a trail of wreckage. And yet ...

He looked at Eulalia, smiling and chatting with Ingomar as if they had just picnicked on a bed of roses. Her eyes were so full of light.

He would give anything for them.


	4. Something is Rotten in Splintertree

.III.  
Something is Rotten in Splintertree

Kieromaris meditated by Lake Elune'ara, allowing her mind to drift like a fish through its waters. The evening was cool and breezy, teasing the lake's tranquil surface. Kiero's long hair spilled around her folded legs, blanketing her thighs. Frogs hopped about on the lake's bank, slow and drowsy. Kiero caught the scent of forthcoming rain.

She dreamed while awake, of things that were and might be. The whispering earth was her companion, its creatures her guides. The frogs clustered at her feet and spoke patiently. The trees told secrets, which fell silently to the ground in a flutter of leaves. Kiero listened and was troubled.

Azeroth was a plagued world, inundated with threats that began at its very core and extended into dimensions unknown. Perpetually embattled, the world was a jewel that many sought to shatter—or at least dominate.

But of all it struggles, the relentless invasion of the Scourge was undoubtedly the worst, to Kiero's mind. The blight it spread was not only magical but organic. And yet, the Cenarion Circle's gains towards a way to reversing it were minimal. Its biological components were stubbornly complex, and its arcane components were deeply esoteric. With the Scourge suddenly intensifying its efforts to overrun the world, a way to reverse their plague was more crucial than ever. But the earth seemed to have no answers for Kiero—only complaints.

She exhaled and rose. She felt restless, uncomfortable. There was a disturbance in her bones. Slender fingers became padded paws as she shed her form and took another, one built for speed. She had only a vague idea of her destination, but she knew she had to get there fast.

---

Eventually, Cian was the only one left. Ingomar had crawled into the bed next to Eulalia's about three hours ago, after her sixth pint. The dwarven woman was passed out with her mouth open and a mug still in hand. Even the bartender was dozing, albeit lightly. Business could happen anytime for a goblin, and if Ingomar should suddenly crave more beer before dawn, he wanted to be ready.

Cian stretched out on a hammock, counting the grains of wood in the ceiling. It wasn't that he never slept. It was just that it happened rarely, like an eclipse. Truthfully, he fought an active war against sleep. He had nightmares of when he was controlled by the Lich King. He wondered if those things he had done, unwilling but aware, were the reason why he could not succeed in his efforts to die. Some part of him knew that his position in the Twisting Nether would be especially vile. Punishment awaited Cian in the afterlife for the blood he'd shed. For the flesh he'd tasted. He looked over at Eulalia, sleeping as still and quiet as a clump of peacebloom.

Maybe there was another reason he was unable to die.

A scraping at the inn door interrupted his thoughts. Cian paused, and then realized that the scraping was everywhere—the windows, the roof, it even sounded as though something were scratching at the floor.

Cian had lost much of his capacity for fear long ago. But he was slightly concerned.

He slipped out of the hammock and moved soundlessly to the door. Through the cracks in its planks, Cian saw a swarm of ghouls and skeletons, pawing fervently at the inn's structure. He couldn't see beyond them to the rest of the town, but he imagined the city guards were quite beleaguered.

Cian went to Eulalia's bedside and shook her, not gently.

"Stranglekelp," Eulalia mumbled.

"Eulie," he said. He jabbed a sharp thumb into her neck, and she started.

"Two pieces and a lead vial!" she cried, and then, "Wait a tic."

"There's a problem," Cian said. "Listen."

Eulalia blinked. "Scourge. Lots of them. But it is so late. Don't they know people need to sleep?"

"Reckon they do, in fact," Cian said.

He approached Ingomar warily, feeling certain that any attempt to rouse her would reward him with a beer mug to the face. Hesitantly, he stood over her, while Eulalia tied her hair back and put on her helmet. He was about to ask her to wake up the dwarf when Ingomar shifted and stared up straight at him. The mug's business end struck his bony cheek, and he grimaced.

"What're ya thinkin', leerin' at me like tha'? Mentally dividing me into tasty portions, I'll wager."

"Madam, I have no intention or desire of eating you," Cian said. "Especially not while you're still alive."

That last remark earned him another cuff to the ear.

"Silence the violence," Eulalia said. "At least against each other. I think we've got to kill some people outside."

Ingomar swung out of bed and took up her hammer. "That's what ye got to understand, Eulalia. These ain't people."

"They were, once," Cian said, as a number of rotting fists broke through the inn's walls. Growling and snarling, a host of ghouls burst inside, twitching at the prospect of fresh blood to drink.

The bartender grabbed a rifle from beneath the bar and fired into the throng, which barely separated.

"Hey! Some help here?" he shouted.

Eulalia leapt onto a stool and loaded three arrows into her bow, which each struck down its target. Cian vanished and crept behind the lines, finishing off the ghouls wounded by Ingomar's consecration.

"Begone, abominations!" she roared, swinging her mace in a wide circle. The monsters tumbled like so many beer bottles, although they were more confused than damaged. Cian and Eulalia used this to their advantage, as she rained down arrow after arrow and he ambushed the dizzy skeletons.

Eulalia set two fingers to her lips and whistled. A great white tiger bounded through the ranks, hissing and spitting as it tore through bones, dirty rags, and remnants of flesh. But they were still only four against perhaps forty, and they could not maintain the fight forever.

Three skeletons toppled Eulalia's stool, and she backflipped over the counter to avoid being overwhelmed.

"I'm outta bullets," the bartender shouted. "Where are the guards?"

"Busy," Cian said, as he drove two knives deep into a ghoul's back.

"We're wearin'em down!" Ingomar said. Holy light burst forth from her palms, felling the ghoul who grasped for her.

"The first twenty, maybe!" Cian said. "What about the rest of them?"

He didn't receive an immediate reply, as the frustrated ghouls jumped on Ingomar, burying the paladin under their gruesome weight.

"Ingomar!" Eulalia cried, hesitant to unleash a volley for fear of hurting her friend. Her single shots took out the Scourge easily, but there were too many. "They are like bees! Awful, mean, bees!"

Cian swore and dove into the fray, but he had barely gotten in a stab when all of the ghouls were thrown off, crashing into beds and hammocks and perfectly arranged bureaus. Ingomar grinned triumphantly, protected by a bubble of divine light.

"Damn paladins," Cian said.

One of the ghouls sunk a claw deep into his ribs, and the green ichor that passed as Cian's blood spilled onto the floor. Wracked with pain, Cian tried to parry the next blow but he was too sluggish. The ghoul ripped apart his side, and Cian screamed as his bones broke.

An arrow hissed past his head and into the ghoul's heart. Its torso separated from its legs as its faced contorted in disappointed surprise. Eulalia jumped down next to him, her mouth grim. Cian slumped down, gasping. It was the paramount of cruelty that, despite his undeath, he could still suffer so intensely.

Eulalia, gripping her polearm, charged into what remained of the attackers, beating them down with reckless abandon. Her cat followed close behind, finishing whatever job she couldn't. Although Cian's vision was hazing, he could see the rage in Eulalia's movements as though it were a palpable entity.

"Atta girl!" Ingomar said. "She's a righ' terror when she gets goin', eh?"

Cian spat ichor. "Uh huh."

She seemed to notice his injury just then. "Yer more battered than a drumstick in a tub o' booze, lad!"

"Seems that way," he heaved, and when he tried to right himself, his bones splintered in his chest. "Damn it."

Eulalia rejoined them, her armor coated in a sickly sheen of undead slurry. Her teeth were bared and feral, much like the snarling cat by her side.

"Reinforcements came from Orgrimmar," she said. "They're cleaning up."

Her eyes flicked to Cian's wounds. "Ingomar, you have to help him."

"What? But—" Ingomar began. "I don't—he's Forsaken."

"He's in pain," Eulalia said. Cian groaned to punctuate the point.

Ingomar sat down. "I need to have a think on this."

"There's not time to think," Eulalia said. "Please."

For some reason, a battle always strengthened Eulalia's lucidity. Fighting anchored her to solid ground like nothing else.

"I don't even know if the Light will consent to such a thing," Ingomar said.  
"But you can try, can't you?" Eulalia's resolve was breaking, now that there was no enemy to sustain it. She leaned on her cat for support, looking unhappily at Cian. "I hate to see you with so much hurt."

"I'm not liking it much either," he said.

Ingomar exhaled. "If the spirit of Uther wills it, it'll be done."

She set her hands to Cian's side, unable to hide her flinch. She began to recite a prayer, and golden light blossomed over Cian's wounds. His bones mended, his cuts healed, even the regrown skin was strangely shimmering.

"Thank you," he breathed.

"Don't mention it," Ingomar said. "Really."

Eulalia fed a piece of meat to her cat, and as she was occupied with scratching behind his ears, a number of Orgrimmar's citizens entered the inn. An'jin was among them.

The troll's sharp eyes understood the scene before him immediately, and he strode up to Cian with aggravated purpose.

"Ey mon," he said. "Nice seein' ya 'gain."

"Hello An'jin," Cian said evenly. "I trust you're faring well."

"Hey, it's that troll I killed!" Eulalia said. "Tell him I said hello!"

Cian massaged his temples. " … Eulalia says hello."

"Dat her name, den?" An'jin said. "Can I ask ya why you're travelin' with a night elf?"

"No," Cian said. "I don't really know myself."

"Can I ask ya, den, why ya lied ta me?"

"Because I knew how it would look?"

"Speak proper language, ya bastards," Ingomar said.

"I'm not sure he knows Common," Cian said to her, to which An'jin replied, "Ya mon, I know da stuff."

His accent was heavy but understandable. Cian raised an eyebrow. An'jin shrugged his thin shoulders. "I spend mosta my time studying. Dat includes linguistics."

"Hiii," Eulalia said. "Sorry about the gulch!"

"Are ya now," he said.

She nodded emphatically, missing the wry note in his voice. "Do you want to come with us on our quest?"

"I think I'll be passin' for now," An'jin said. "Though I do wonder what be da nature of dis quest."

"We're gonna find a cure for undeath," Eulalia said proudly, as though the task had already been accomplished.

"Interestin'," An'jin said. "Good luck wit dat." To Cian, he spoke in Orcish. "I'll be checkin' in, mon."

Cian nodded warily, not wanting to argue. He couldn't guess An'jin's interest in him, but nor could he afford to strain the relationship between their peoples any further.

"Hey," the bartender said. He gestured around the inn, which was in shambles—broken beds, severed hammock cords, pieces of candles and blood soaked books all lying in various disarrayed piles. "Who's gonna pay for all this, eh?"

"We saved yer life, ya wee ingrate!" Ingomar cried.

"But you ruined my business," the goblin snarled.

An'jin dropped a handful of coins onto the intact part of the counter. "This oughta cover it, mon."

The bartender scooped up the gold with a greedy grin. "Thank you much."

"You didn't need to—" Cian began.

"Ain't no thing, mon," An'jin said. "I can make dat back in an hour."

"Well then," Cian said.

"Sure you don't want to come with us?" Eulalia asked. "I promise not to kill you again!"

An'jin laughed. "I'm sure dat we'll be meetin' again, lady." He enveloped her hand with his and kissed her knuckles. "Be seein' ya."

The mage disappeared in a burst of arcane light.

"Mages an' their fancy teleportin'," Ingomar scoffed. "Best wash yer hands, Eulie, who knows what kinna fleas that one's draggin' around."

"No worse than a kitty I think," Eulalia said brightly, as she buried her long fingers into the tiger's fur. It rubbed up against her legs, pleased.

By this time, the inn was crowded with guards from both Ratchet and Orgrimmar picking through the debris in search of any still moving ghoul parts. Cian felt it was a ripe time for an exit, and he began to wend through the goblins and orcs—a sea of green skin—towards the now missing front door. Eulalia and Ingomar followed, amidst jeers and slurs that they couldn't understand. Cian thought better of translating.

Once in the sunlight, Eulalia breathed in deep and announced, "Okay! Let's get started."

"You're not serious about this idea, are you?" Cian said.

"As a curse!" she said.

"Look …"

"I want to," she said. She paused, and then added. "All you have to decide is whether or not you want to come too."

"Cannae let ya undertake this crazy enterprise alone," Ingomar said.

"Much as it pains my shriveled heart to agree with a paladin," Cian said.

"Then there you go," Eulalia said.

"But what are ye gonna do, lass? Where are ye gonna start?" Ingomar said.

"Somebody's working on this," Eulalia said. "The druids. We will talk to the druids."

"Moonglade is a good four days' journey," Cian said.

"Didn't realize gryphons were so slow," Ingomar said.

"We can't take the wyverns because they were all killed," Cian said. "The flight master isn't in such great shape, either."

"Better get a move on then," Eulalia said, summoning her cat.

Ingomar and Cian called forth their horses, which stood in stark contrast to one another—holy and unholy, juxtaposed.

Ingomar's magnificent steed tossed it head at Cian's, in a gesture that Cian found unmistakably mocking.

"Your horse is insulting my horse," he said.

"As well it should! Ha!" Ingomar said.

---

Kieromaris slunk through the rotted forest of Felwood on four sleek, black-furred legs. Her feline body was hidden in the darkness that permeated the land, allowing her to slip by agitated treants and diseased wolves without notice. Her sense of trepidation heightened with each step she took towards Ashenvale, which surprised her. Ashenvale, although besieged with problems of its own, was a purified well in comparison to the aching misery that poisoned Felwood. If anything was happening, surely it was within the filthy, secretive cults that persisted here, working to further the designs of the Burning Legion—the other great threat to Azeroth's well-being. But she felt nothing here that wasn't already present, no new cry for help among the many that had existed since the forest's original pollution.

Kiero hesitated by a sickly bush of berries. She shifted, just for a moment, into her elven form and took a cup of salve from her bags. She massaged the mixture into the bush's leaves, restoring vibrancy to the fruit. She harvested the berries for later and moved on—the path out of Felwood was near. Her muscles shook. She hoped she was not too late.

---

They took the back route out of the Barrens, so as to avoid being hacked to pieces by the Horde guards. Cian was relatively sure that the guards wouldn't understand the gloriously altruistic nature of their quest. As it was, everyone assumed that he was stalking Ingomar and Eulalia, rather than traveling with them.

He shut his mind and brooded. Was friendship between them so inconceivable? Not, admittedly, that they were exactly friends. He and Ingomar were enemies waiting to happen, actually, although Eulalia acted as a barrier to their animosity for now. Still, the bloodlust exhibited by his fellow Horde unnerved him. Cian wondered if it was specific to him or to his companions, if he would be ordered to kill Ingomar and Eulalia so relentlessly if he were a priest or a druid. His livelihood was sustained by death. No one was asking more of him than what anyone expected. But it wasn't what he wanted.

The problem was that Cian didn't know what he did want. He hadn't planned anything beyond questioning Eulalia. He had thought she might try to kill him but instead she had embraced him, and now what the hell were they doing?

Trying to fix him.

Cian knew that the plague could be improved, or worsened, depending on your perspective, but reversal seemed far less likely. The disease both took away and prolonged life. It would require a paradox of similar proportions to counteract it. But it was so much easier to break down than to build up.

They were approaching Splintertree Post. Cian steeled himself, prepared to avoid eye contact with the guards.

But, as it turned out, none of the guards had eyes to avoid.

Despite the enemy territory, Eulalia dismounted immediately. She dropped down by the murdered orcs, and there was such sorrow in her face that Cian couldn't bear the sight of it. Even Ingomar was dismayed. She went among the dead, in search of anyone who might still live, anyone she could preserve from their fate.

Every step into the village revealed increasingly horrific scenes. A tauren woman was splayed out across the inn's threshold like a gruesome welcome mat. Like the guards, her eyes had been gouged out, but her stomach had also been split open. Cian noticed with disquiet that her entrails were shredded, as though they had been partially consumed.

"Did we do this?" Eulalia cried, meaning the Alliance, which was known to raid Splintertree with all the regularity of sunrise.

"No," Cian said. "Something worse."

"Aye," Ingomar said. "I'm no fan of these lads, but I wouldn't go defilin' their corpses in such a manner, and damned if I know many who would."

Bodies were strewn everywhere, many dismembered, their half-eaten legs and arms lying stiff in pools of congealed blood. Every head bore empty sockets, but the mouths told the story the eyes could not: the lips were twisted in surprised fear. No one here knew what had hit them.

The scent of death did not bother Cian, he had to live with putrefaction every day of his unlife. But the rank stench of rigid corpses and the coppery taint of blood in the air were too much for Eulalia. She buried her head in her cat's fur and sobbed like a child.

"I don't understand you," Cian said, irritated. "You kill these people every day."

Her voice was muffled by fur. "It is not the same and you know it. I would never do a thing like this. Never ever ever ever _never_." She almost screamed the last words, such that the cat shuddered from the force.

"Maybe so," Cian said. "But you are mourning your enemy."

Eulalia raised her head. "You are the one who is hard to understand. Why does everyone insist on making themselves enemy or non-enemy? Can't it—isn't it okay for me to mourn—a terrible thing? Because, you know, you don't wish terrible things on people, even if they have no last names and do not wear shoes."

Cian opened his mouth to retort that he had a last name (it was McCulloch), but understood that was beside Eulalia's point. He supposed she was right. A brutal massacre had happened here, not a military battle. This was beyond the pale of warring factions.

"Oi," Ingomar called. "I think I hear something in this lil cave network over here. Maybe some survivors."

She leaned inside and shouted, "Any of ya alive in there?"

Cian, standing by her, could discern a low, guttural sound, which became agitated after the dwarf's yell. He went stealth and moved in, motioning for Ingomar and Eulalia to follow. Braziers lit the way, casting their flickering shadows on the walls. Eulalia stepped with all the silence of a secret, but Ingomar's proud strides announced her as though she were leading a parade. Whatever was back there knew that at least someone was coming.

The cave complex wasn't extensive, but they did find another eviscerated corpse before they reached the source of the noise. It was a male tauren this time, and Eulalia whispered as she bent beside it, "This was a recent death. Less than two hours. Look."

Splotches of blood formed a trail deeper into the tunnel. They drew their weapons.

Sitting there at the tunnel's end was a group of Forsaken, their claws clutching severed body parts which they gnawed at deliriously. One in particular was enjoying a pile of eyeballs, which he was sucking off his claws like olives.

Cian was so shocked that he came forth and shouted in Gutterspeak, "What are you doing?!"

The group, which was comprised of three undead men and two women, paused their feeding frenzy to stare at Cian. The eyeball connoisseur replied in Common, "Hello, brother. Join us."

They lunged for him, and Eulalia shot three arrows, which killed their targets instantly. The two remaining Forsaken hissed at Eulalia, and she bared her fanged teeth in return.

"Stop," Cian said. "Stop it. What's going on here? Why did you do this?"

The woman slunk up close to Cian. Her tattered dress was sodden with gore, and her lips were crusted with bits of fur and skin. "We've returned to the Master. You will too, soon."

"That's right," said her male companion. "His will is our will."

The woman spasmed and grabbed Cian's vest. Her words were so quick that Cian almost missed them. "_You must run_."

Her moment of control passed, and the woman attempted to tear Cian's vest from his body—and presumably the flesh it protected as well. Cian shoved her away and she crashed into the other Forsaken. Cian could see the anguish in their halting staggers. He focused on the dirt floor and said to Ingomar and Eulalia, "Kill them."

"Ye don' have to tell me twice, lad," Inogmar said. A pillar of exorcising fire exploded through the woman, reducing her to ashes. Eulalia lodged an arrow in the man's heart before he could even consider a counterattack.

"I'm sorry," Eulalia said. She had noticed that Cian was shaking.

"It's all right," he said. "I must admit, I'm … I'm a little unnerved."

"Aye, me too," Ingomar said. "What if you start actin' like them eh? Think yer resolve can handle the Lich King's will?"

"I'll never serve the Scourage again, never," Cian growled. "I'd sooner submit to your mace."

"And ya will too, if yer conviction should 'appen to waver," Ingomar said.

"Cian is so much stronger than that," Eulalia said. "It will not happen. Won't, won't, won't."

Cian thought, if it won't happen, then why do I look at you sometimes and imagine the taste of your liver?

But then, maybe the disturbing images weren't his fault, maybe they were the machinations of an external force trying to control his true self. But if the Lich King was trying to re-assert dominance over the Forsaken, then he could possibly succumb, end up like his former comrades lying still on the ground in front of him. Or maybe his conflicted feelings weren't caused by this at all. Maybe he just needed a force to blame. Maybe he couldn't admit that the things he had done, had seen, had torn apart with his bare hands and consumed—

"Cian," Eulalia said.

He gasped. "Wh-what?"

"You're heaving. I mean like … more than usual."

"I'm fine, it's fine," he said. "I, I have to go to Orgrimmar."

"But, the druids …"

"I have to warn the Warchief," Cian said. "If this isn't a fluke, then we could have a very serious problem on our hands."

"Okay then … we'll go with you!"

"We will?" Ingomar said.

"You won't," Cian said.

"We will!" Eulalia said.

"You will be killed on sight," Cian said.

"Nooo," Eulalia said. From her bags, she produced a purplish glass sphere encrusted with gold. "Not with this."

"An orb of deception," Cian said. "How did you come by one of those?"

"Ooh, it's a long story," Eulalia said.

"I'll bet," he said. "Did it involve another troll trying to eat you?"

"Nope," she said. "But it did involve a zombie man like yourself pretending to be a night elf so he could spy on Astranaar which is where I was staying and when I found him out I'm pretty sure he was mad enough to kill me and do that thing to corpses that you guys do."

"Cannibalize?"

"Yes, something with a lot of syllables."

"Right."

"Anyway." She smiled. "I took it from him."

"I'm sure he handed it over peacefully," Cian said.

"His eyes were not open at the time, so I guess he was pretty peaceful, yeah!"

"Sorry ta interrupt this deeply intellectual conversatin', but we need ta be on our way," Ingomar said. "The longer we stay here, the more likely 'tis that someone, somewhere, will be thinkin' alla this is our fault."

As if on cue, an outraged female voice shouted from the cave's entrance. "Who's in there! Did you do this?!"

Cian identified the voice as distinctly night elven—haughty and thick with indignation. He slipped into stealth and positioned himself beside Eulalia, and a moment later, a night elf appeared before them, her long white hair disheveled, her purple skin flushed. Exhaling, she took in the scene before her: Eulalia, Ingomar, the pile of eyeballs, the half-eaten arms and legs, and the unmoving bodies of the Forsaken. Cian could almost see her synapses firing as she tried to put the situation together. He guessed that if he showed himself at this point, she would mark him as her solution. As it stood, she was probably wondering why Eulalia and Ingomar had committed such a massacre.

"Eulie!" the night elf said. "Is that you?"

Or he could be completely wrong. Did Eulalia know _everyone_?

"Yup!" Eulalia said. "How are you, Kiero?"

The two women embraced.

"Oh, I've missed you," Kiero said, and her tone was so fond that Cian was almost jealous. Almost. "And how are you, Ingomar?"

"I'm all righ', despite, ye know, circumstances."

"What exactly happened here?" Kiero said.

"I'd love to tell ye the whole story, but if we could talk in a place not reekin' of the stench of desecrated corpses, I'd be much obliged," Ingomar said. She started out of the cave, and they all followed.

Cian wasn't sure if this was the right time to reveal himself, but Eulalia chose for him. She prodded one of his exposed shoulder bones and said, "Say hi."

Grumbling, he stepped into view, prompting Kiero to cast a spell immediately. Thorny vines sprung from the ground and snaked around his ankles and thighs, fixing him in place. The thorns pierced his flesh, and he gritted his teeth in anger. He took a bit of powder from a pouch on his belt and threw it in the air. The powder exploded in smoke, and he vanished. Angrily, Kiero raised her arms to cast another spell.

"Wait!" Eulalia said. "He's our friend."

"Let's not be usin' such strong language, now," Ingomar said.

Cian was too angry to retort, still literally stinging from the thorns. He fought the rage boiling rage behind his eyesockets, stayed the hand which gripped his daggers. It would not do to retaliate, although he desperately wanted to, and felt he had the right. He wanted to gouge her at least, cause her a little pain to repay the prickling in his bones.

"He's _my_ friend," Eulalia said forcefully. "So please don't hurt him."

"Hah," Cian said, still hidden. "I'm shaking."

"Is that a challenge?" Kiero whirled around, calling down columns of moonfire on random patches of grass. Cian chuckled.

"You can't hit what you can't see," he said.

"Oi," Ingomar said. "We don't 'ave time for this."

The statement caught at least Kiero, who said, "You're right. Let's find a place to make camp."

They traveled far enough from Splintertree to deter suspicion, back towards the border between Ashenvale and the Barrens. Ingomar built them a campfire, and it was only then, around the flames, that Cian let his face be seen again—or rather, the outlines of his leather mask. Its shadow caused his eyes to glow red, which visibly unsettled Kiero. He grinned at her while he sharpened his daggers.

"So what is this," Kiero said, looking at him with distaste, "What's going on?"

Ingomar told the story, beginning with the bar fight. Cian focused on caring for his knives, so that he could tune out her numerous slights towards him and his association with Eulalia. Ingomar still didn't know how they had met up again, and he wondered how she would react if told the details. She didn't seem the type to understand a little kidnapping between old friends.

When Ingomar finished, Kiero nodded gravely and explained about the visions the earth had shared with her.

"They were vague," she admitted. "I sensed more than I saw. Terrible deaths, burned grass, bark stained with blood, and a persistent dread, so intense that I almost didn't want to investigate." Kiero sighed. "But, well, it's my job and all. Protector of the planet and everything."

"How noble," Cian said. "Do you make sure to hug a tree every night before bed?" He should have been more amicable. It was better to get along, to at least try to be friendly for now. But his ankles hurt.

"I do more than that," Kiero said. "Wanna see?"

Not expecting her to run with the bait, Cian muttered, "No, I think not."

"Kiero, are you coming with us to Orgrimmar?" Eulalia asked.

Kiero shook her head. "Given what you've told me, I think it would be better if I went ahead and warned the Cenarion Circle myself. I can also talk to them about your quest, if you want. Maybe the Archdruid will agree to see you."

"The Archdruid? I hope you don't mean Fandral," Cian said. "That fool can hardly see an inch in front of his face."

Kiero shrugged. "You're not alone in that opinion. But he's still the leader of the Cenarion Circle. If anyone knows what we've discovered about the plague, I can't think why it wouldn't be him."

"Hamuul would know more," Cian said. "But I don't suppose you'd be able to manage that audience."

"All members of the Circle welcome each other," Kiero responded icily, but added, "or we're meant to, anyway."

"Okay, we'll meet you in Moonglade then!" Eulalia said. "Let's all go to sleep now."

This was her way of diffusing an argument. She was smiling so hard at the both of them that Cian nodded. He was tired of talking, anyway.

An hour passed. Everyone but him was deep in sleep. He lay on his back, putting together constellations, doing his best not to think of what would happen in Orgrimmar. The news he had was bad enough. If Eulalia and Ingomar were discovered by an already panicked city …

Eulalia's bags were in a pile at her feet. Cian sat up, reached over to them, and opened the one which contained the orb of deception. But as his hand closed over the orb's cool glass, Eulalia's hand closed over his. Déjà vu.

"I know you're not stealing from me again," she whispered.

Cian let go of the orb. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"I am going with you," she said. "You were upset that I left, so I am not leaving again. Okay?"

"I just don't think—"

Eulalia had closed her eyes and curled up again. She yawned and said, "I dunno when you'll figure out that arguing with me is probably the worst idea it is possible for a person to have."

He closed his mouth and thought, _Probably never._

--

As ever, Ingomar and Kieromaris belong to their players, not to me, although all deficiencies in their portrayals are my fault, of course. Thanks for reading, hope you'll stay on for subsequent parts :)


	5. Mission: Improbable

I know it's been a little while, but graduate school keeps me away (and The Burning Crusade, of course).

In this chapter, we learn that before you try to infiltrate an enemy city you should probably research what you're using to disguise yourself.

.IV.  
Mission: Highly Improbable

A few hours before morning, Cian felt someone watching him.

"What do you want?" he rolled over and stared into Kiero's yellow panther eyes. She crouched in stealth beside him, her whip of a tail lashing back and forth. "You know, if you want some pointers on sneaking around, I'd recommend not beating the leaves with your tail."

Kiero bared her long fangs. "Shut up, monster."

Cian bristled. "I'm getting a little tired of defending myself to everyone we meet."

"You have a lot to answer for," Kiero said. She shifted back into a night elf and stood over him, a tall, slender tower of righteous indignation. "For example, that camp of Forsaken over there." She gestured into the forest, towards the mountain range to the east. A barrow den was carved into the trees and rock there, but the druids who slept within it had all been killed by Forsaken deathstalkers. "Your kind performed cruel experiments on the helpless druids in that barrow den. My brothers and sisters can't even rest peacefully, because your alchemists somehow severed their spirits from their bodies. You would call these actions anything less than monstrous?"

"I would call them none of my concern," Cian said. Kiero's owlish eyebrows shot up in outrage.

"How can you say that?"

"Look," Cian said. "It's not fair to hold me responsible for everything any Forsaken does. That's as ludicrous as me holding you responsible for everything your people do. Like, for example, bringing the Burning Legion here in the first place. I think the party invitation they received was from your former queen, wasn't it?"

"That was so long ago," Kiero began.

"And yet, the effects of that event are still rippling through this world every day," Cian said.

"Yes. We were arrogant, in that regard. I can admit that."

"You're not getting it. I don't care if you admit that or not. I don't care what you think about what Azshara did. You had no say in it, you had no room to oppose it, most of the night elves didn't even know what was happening until the deed was done," Cian said. "Do you understand what I'm saying here? I can't hate you for that because you had nothing to do with it."

"But I would stand against Azshara and her Highborne even now if I were to meet them face to face," Kiero countered. "Would you stand against your people for their despicable acts?"

Cian did not immediately reply. He stared at the grass. He watched the fireflies twinkling, tried to breathe in as much of the dewy air as he could, tried to trace the veins on a fallen leaf. But he felt only the shadows of sensation. The experiences were held out in front of him at arm's length, like a fruit dangling from a tree branch. He could reach for them and he knew their names, he could even smell them. But when Cian tried to grasp and hold anything—like the satisfaction of a lungful of air, or the softness of a leaf's skin—it pulled back, slipped away. Every one of the Forsaken had to deal with this denial, every day.

Finally, he said, "No."

Kiero looked smug.

He turned his back to her. "Think what you want. I'm not saying what they're doing in that camp is right. But will I slaughter them for it? No. What good would that do? And anyway, you act like that little pocket of undead is equivalent to every free-willed undead, everywhere. And they're not. They're just not."

"So you're different. You wouldn't do what they're doing."

Cian tore a blade of grass into shreds. "I don't know."

"You don't know? You don't know if you'd feed a poison to a sleeping person, a poison so terrible that not only would that person die but their driven-mad spirit would stick around?"

"I probably wouldn't," Cian said. "But what I'm telling you is that I can understand the bitterness that would drive someone else to that act. What do you think we undead are, anyway, except insane spirits?"

"That doesn't give you the right—"

"No," Cian said. "But it gives us the motivation."

"I'm done with you," Kiero said. She shifted into a cheetah. "Tell Eulalia and Ingomar that I said take care."

"Can do."

"And if you hurt them, I promise you that I won't give a damn about your motivations when I come after your moldy corpse."

"Wouldn't expect you to." He waved goodbye as she ran off, her form quickly disappearing into the dawn.

---

"You can't actually be serious about this," Cian said.

"As an arrow to the brain!" Eulalia replied cheerfully. "C'mere, Ingo."

She took the orb of deception from her labyrinthine packs and held it out, cupped in her palms.

"So yer sayin' ye want me ter touch yer ball?" Ingomar said.

Eulalia nodded emphatically.

"Could you be more juvenile," Cian said. "I mean, is it physically possible."

"Don' be jealous," Ingomar said. She set her hand on top of the orb. "'S not my fault ye've got no balls to touch."

Cian unsheathed his knives.

"Guys, be niiiice," Eulalia said. "We have to work together during our secret mission."

"It isn't secret for me," Cian grumbled, glaring at Ingomar. He had half a mind to throw her to the guards the second they stepped into Orgrimmar.

The orb's fuchsia glass glowed, its tinted light extending in myriad points from its center. The light enveloped both Eulalia and Ingomar, snaking over their bodies and then clinging to them like a mold. When the glow dissipated, the two were transformed.

Ingomar became a female troll: six and a half feet tall, blue-skinned, three fingered, with shiny red hair and two small tusks jutting from her mouth. Beside her, Eulalia stood as one of the Forsaken. She had lost almost three feet of height off of her original seven and six, and her body had become thin and rotted. Like mine, thought Cian.

She wore a simple robe and headband, but the enchanted polearm was clearly visible on her back. Couldn't be helped.

Ingomar wiggled her new bottom. When she spoke, the language was Orcish and in the distinct accent of the trolls: "Nice, mon. I think I could get used to dis, except for da blue skin."

Eulalia flexed her bony, claw-like fingers and said in awe, "You could take someone's eye out with these things!"

The morbid scratch of a Forsaken underlined her speech, but lightly. Cian frowned.

"Eulie, we undead are not exactly …" he paused. "Sprightly."

"But your bodies are so interesting," Eulalia said. She lifted the hem of her robe to marvel at her capless knees.

"Put dat away before you blind someone, mon," Ingomar said.

"This is not going to work," Cian said. "This is suicide."

After breaking camp that morning, Cian had briefly mentioned Kiero's departure, although he didn't go into the details of their discussion. Predictably, Eulalia had shrugged and smiled, while Ingomar gave him the evil eye. But she hadn't pressed him for details (because she had decided to blame him regardless), so they traveled eastward and then south along the Southfury River, until they reached Orgrimmar's Talon Gate. A bridge across the river connected the Barrens to Durotar and led directly into the city.

Instead of listening to Cian's complaint, Eulalia had walked away from him and was now crossing that bridge. Ingomar went after her, and Cian didn't realize he was alone until his dissuasive diatribe was nearly finished.

"Hey!" he called. "Wait!"

Ingomar and Eulalia passed the guards without incident, although one looked askance at Cian as he sprinted past, to the point where she grabbed his arm and said, "Sir, I hope you're not planning to harass those women."

"What?" Cian said. "No, we're traveling together."

The guard called to Eulalia and Ingomar. "He with you?"

"No mon," Ingo replied sweetly. "Never seen him in my life."

"He's my brother!" Eulalia jabbed Ingomar with her elbow. "Kalika, you remember him, don't you?"

"No," Ingomar said grumpily.

The guard released Cian's arm. "Just try to keep him out of trouble."

"What the hell," Cian muttered. "I'm revered with this damn city."

"Aww, dat be a tough break, baby cake," Ingomar said. "Now den, where's dis Warchief I been hearin' so much about?"

"Just follow me and keep your mouths shut," Cian said. "Both of you."

He started walking and after a minute Eulalia began to fidget. Then she twitched, then she shook, and just before she entered a full-blown seizure state Cian hissed, "What?"

"Shouldn't we get onourmounts?" she said, in a rush of shuddery breath.

"The spell doesn' extend to mounts," Ingomar pointed out.

"Then no," Cian said. "I think they'd notice something off about a Forsaken riding a nightsaber."

"I could say I killed me and took the reins from my smoldering body."

"No," Cian repeated. "It's not that far."

Orgrimmar was the Horde's main city. At any given hour, its dusty streets were packed with members of all the Horde's allied races, conducting various kinds of business: checking mail, rearranging their bank inventories, and sniping auctions. Guards were everywhere, including special elite orcs with the ability to detect any stealthy intruders. Cian wondered, as one such elite warrior passed, if she could detect the spell on Ingo and Eulie. But she strode past without so much as a turn of the head.

Great bonfires burned on the street corners. Their embers mixed with the scent of roasting meat and overripe bodies, giving the windless air a heady aroma that Eulalia sucked in with more joy than was entirely necessary. Halfway through the Drag, Cian noticed that she was also skipping.

Ingomar laughed. "Ya like it here, mon?"

"I could _live _here," Eulalia said. "Although I'm not sure about this body. A couple of my fingers have already fallen off."

"Yeah, they do that sometimes," Cian said. "I've found fresh boar sinew is a reasonable adhesive."

They passed through the Drag and into the Valley of Wisdom.

"Okay," Cian said. "Thrall's stronghold is just ahead. Keep it together."

"We're fine," Ingomar said. "You're de one havin' a heart attack, mon."

"Yup, no one suspects a thing!" Eulalia did a joyful flip, but she landed on her knees with an excruciating crack.

"There's a reason we don't do that," Cian said.

"Just a flesh wound," Eulalia whimpered.

As Ingomar kneeled down to heal the fractures, she noticed a sign for a harness shop. "Hey, I've always wanted a harness. Let's check dis out."  
"Ing—I mean, Kalika—you don't need a harness. We are forty feet from Thrall's door. Come on," Cian said.

"Sure I do," Ingomar said. "Besides, my armor's worn out."

She approached the vendor, a female orc who greeted them warmly.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"To go," Cian said, grabbing Ingomar's arm. She shrugged him off and said, "Now, now, we got time. Pass over those harnesses, ma'am."

But as Ingomar's fingers touched the merchant's, her body began to glow. As did Eulalia's.

"Uh oh," Ingomar said.

Startled, the merchant dropped her wares, then shrieked, as she found herself face-to-face not with a friendly troll but an evil little dwarf.

"Guards!" she shouted.

"Damn," Ingomar said.

"I forgot this spell only lasts about five minutes," Eulalia said. "Oops."

The merchant's hut filled with guards who sneered at the two Alliance women and raised their axes.

"Stop!" Cian said. "Don't … don't hurt them."

"Why not," one guard growled.

"Because," Cian thought fast, "because they're my prisoners."

"That so?" the guard said. "Then why were they in disguise?"

"I just, I was bringing them to the Warchief for questioning and … and I didn't want to cause a commotion," Cian explained. "You know, you know how people are excitable …"

"What do they need to be questioned about?" the guard said. "Because I'm thinking it can't really be _that_ important …"

"Bring it, greenskin," Ingomar said. "I ain't scared of you."

"Wench!" The orc brought down his axe, but Ingomar parried the strike with her hammer.

"This matter is of great importance to the Horde," Cian went on doggedly, trying to speak over the clanging metal, "To all of Azeroth. And, uh, beyond."

"Fine," the guard snarled. "Let the Warchief deal with you. We'll take you to him."

"Fantastic," Cian said. He glared at his two companions as they were corralled towards Grommash Hold.

"Don't look so glum," Eulalia said. "I'm sure we can all be friends."

Cian couldn't summon up the anger this situation probably warranted. He knew, intrinsically, that Eulalia's plan would go awry somehow, although he had expected the disaster to be more spectacular, to have more of a song and dance to it. Like Ingomar hurling a slur at a passing orc and then stunning him with her hammer for looking at her funny. Nothing quite like a troll paladin to sir the citizenry. Instead, they had been brought down by simple forgetfulness. Or ignorance, on his part. Cian had never owned an orb of deception, knew nothing of its spell, and had been too busy panicking to ask. Ultimately, he supposed he was as much to blame as anyone.

But he was comfortable with keeping that to himself.

"Never was one much for subterfuge," Ingomar said, marching defiantly in front. But she licked her lips and her knuckles were white against the handle of her mace.

The walk from the harness shop to Thrall's throne room was short, but fraught with suspicious, alarmed stares from passers by. Several of them jeered at the women, but no one dared to attack while they were surrounded by guards. Not, Cian thought, that the guards would have minded.

The room before Thrall's was full of troll and orc shaman, who sat at round wooden tables poring over runed scrolls and training the young shaman who visited them. None of them spoke when Cian and the others entered, but their eyes hardened with mistrust, and they stared down the intruders until the group stood before Thrall's throne.

The court was completely silent. Everyone—the guards, the elite guards, the advisors, and Vol'jin, leader of the trolls—looked to Thrall. Usually, Orgrimmar policed itself: when Alliance visited, the people were all too happy to deal with the problem. And if any group of raiders fought their way to Thrall's stronghold, they were dogpiled by waves of elite guards while Thrall watched, impassive.

The Warchief surveyed the dwarf, the elf, and the undead, with what Cian hoped was amusement in his bright blue eyes.

"It's been a while since I've seen any live Alliance in this room," he said, in perfectly enunciated Common. "What brings you here?"

Ingomar and Eulalia exchanged glances.

"Well, Mr. Warchief, sir," Eulalia began, stumbling over her words. Cian thought her nerves had finally sent some fear to her brain, but as he studied her quivering smile he realized that her anxiety stemmed from admiration, not terror. She wanted his damn autograph.

"First, I, I just wanted to say, it's so great to meet you, because you're great, and you've done great things," she stammered. Some of the guards laughed, while Vol'jin scowled, "You got somethin' to say, girl, or you just gonna waste our time?"

Cian cleared his throat. "There was an incident at Splintertree."

Thrall turned to him. "I see. And what is your name?"

"Cian," he replied.

"Ah, I've heard you spoken of around the city," Thrall said. "You've done much for us."

"Well, I try," Cian mumbled.

"And is what your relationship with these two women? What happened in Splintertree?"

"They're all dead," Ingomar said. "Yer Warchiefness."

Thrall's brow furrowed, and any hint of mirth drained from his posture and voice. "And how did that come about?"

"When we arrived, the village had been massacred," Cian said. "Upon, um, further investigation, we found a group of addled Forsaken."

He remembered the one eating eyeballs like they were olives, and stalled. "They, ah … they were …"

"They were havin' a snack of the remains," Ingomar said. She clicked her tongue at Cian. "Got yer back."

"Thank you, Ingomar," Cian said. "Yes. That's what they were doing."

"I am, as you might surmise, troubled," Thrall said. "You are suggesting that the Forsaken are returning to the fold of the Scourge, yes?"

"It may have been an isolated incident," Cian said. "I just felt you should know, Warchief."

"And what about you, Cian?" Thrall said. "How are you feeling? Any desire to rip out the entrails of your allies?"

"No," Cian said. No more than usual.

"I'll dispatch agents to Splintertree immediately," Thrall said. He made a motion with his hand, and a number of orcs and trolls bowed and left the room. "But that brings us to another matter. Who are these women?"

"We're traveling together," Cian said.

"We're gonna find a cure for undeath, sir!" Eulalia said.

Thrall laughed. "That's a noble goal, night elf."

"How do we know ya ain' lyin' to save your own skin?" Vol'jin said.

"I would never do to those people what was done to them!" Eulalia cried. "_Never_!"

"How dare ye accuse a follower of the Light of such atrocities," Ingomar said.

"I seen plenty of atrocity committed in da name of da Light," Vol'jin sneered.

"You would do well to remember your position," Thrall said, not unkindly. "Which, I must warn you, is somewhat more than precarious."

"Look at dis woman, Warchief," Vol'jin said, gesturing to Eulalia. "She be a Commander in da Alliance military. How many our people ya killed, girl?"

"The combat was honorable!" Eulalia said, becoming more and more agitated.

"Eulie, relax," Cian said.

"No! No, I will not!" Eulalia was shouting now, oblivious to the guards' darkening faces. "I would never dese … descre … I would never ruin another person's body like that! I would never attack a defenseless person, I don't care what city they call home!"

"Your conviction is admirable," Thrall said. "Although you understand that it proves nothing to us. So please, calm down."

Eulalia grit her teeth, but thankfully said nothing more.

"I'll not perform an open act of war by executing you," Thrall said. "But you must consent to our hospitality while the events at Splintertree are investigated."

The court murmured, mostly in disapproval. Even Ingomar looked surprised.

"We're not the savages some would have you believe," Thrall said. "We seek only to protect what is ours. I'm sure you can appreciate that, dwarf."

"My name's Ingomar," Ingo said. "Of the Order of the Silver Hand."

"Very well then, Ingomar," Thrall said. "And you, night elf?"

"Eulalia," she said. Her tone was reserved—she was still smarting over the accusations leveled against her and her friend.

"If you truly had no part in the events you described, then you have nothing to fear for your honor or your lives," Thrall said. "As I told you, we are not indiscriminate killers. But nor can we simply release you without knowing all the facts."

He nodded to guards. "For now, please rest. We will speak soon."

Cian understood this as a polite way of saying, "Take them away," which the guards promptly did. They were brought to a network of cells dug out around the Ring of Valor, a battle arena that hadn't been used in years.

"No one will look for you here," one of the guards explained. "Cian, you're free to move about the city. But don't think about taking a vacation—we've got a mage tracking you."

"You do?" he said uncertainly, and An'jin appeared, his smile razor sharp. "Man, are you stalking me?"

"I tol' ya I'd be seein' ya, didn't I?"

"Pssst, Cian," Eulalia said. "Could you bring us some food?"

"Aye, I could do with a nice bit 'o roasted something," Ingomar said. "And a mug of beer! You cannae forget the beer, lad."

"And for dessert?" Cian snapped, eyes still on An'jin.

"Homemade cherry pie!" Eulalia called.

"Why are you following us around?" Cian asked, as he left to fulfill their requests.

"Traitors are always interestin'," An'jin replied.

"I'm no traitor," Cian said.

"Your company would be sayin' different," An'jin said.

"Eulalia and I have, a history. I knew her when I was alive. She was like my mentor or something."

"Or somethin'."

"Why do you care?"

An'jin shrugged. "Ya can call it bitterness over ya rescuin' a person who destroyed me. Ya can call it curiosity. Ya can call it concern over your doins'. Maybe alla dat."

"It's really not your business," Cian said.

"Ah, but it is mon. I would reckon it be the business of us all."

"Well, I'm not going to take off. There's no need to shadow me." Cian walked into a chop shop and asked for a few cuts of quail. He carried the meat back to the cell and passed it through the bars, while An'jin watched and followed silently. Apparently Cian had been unclear.

"No booze?" Ingomar said.

"Fresh out," Cian replied.

"Hey, mister troll!" Eulalia called. "How are you?"

"Doin' fine," he replied. "Better den you."

"Oh, I think we'll be okay," Eulalia said, digging into her roasted quail.

Cian sat down on the dirt floor in front of the cell and leaned back against the bars. "Go do what you do, mage. We're not leaving."

"I'll be close by," An'jin said, before blinking out of sight.

"I think that troll has a wee crush on you, lad," Ingomar said.

"He's mad at me because I didn't attack Euls before she killed him in the Gulch."

"Oh, really?"

"Yup," Eulalia said. "He attacked me _after_."

"Oh. Really," Ingomar said.

"Let's not bring up old stuff," Cian said nervously.

"It's not old, it happened just last week," Eulalia said. Cian groaned.

Fortunately, he was spared having to explain the incident by an interruption from a guard. The orc's green skin was pale with fear, and his speech was halting. "You. Come quickly. Now."

He opened the cell and called his wolf mount, gesturing for the others to do the same. They rode to Grommash Hold, suffused with alarm.

"We've hardly been here an hour," Ingomar said. "What could possibly have happened?"

They rode into the throne room, where a troll and an orc kneeled before Thrall, both gravely injured from claw-like scores on their chests and legs.

"We were attacked almost the instant we landed," the orc gasped. Splotches of blood dotted the floor, and more were pooling at his and his comrade's feet. Priests were gathered around them, trying to heal the deep gashes in their flesh. The orc turned his head slightly to glare at Eulalia and Ingomar. "By the Alliance."

---

Kieromaris knew that Cian was right. Staghlem could care less about either a cure for undeath or the Forsaken being retaken by the Scourge. Like most night elves, he thought the Forsaken were an abomination to be destroyed—regardless of their will. If she wanted help, she would have to seek out Hamuul Runetotem. Unfortunately, he lived in Thunder Bluff, a city not known for its love of night elves.

Kieromaris shifted into the form of a sleek, purple-black panther and faded into the shadows. She jumped onto the lift which brought her up to the entrance of Thunder Bluff, a city built on a series of towering plateaus and connected with bridges. She crept beyond the guards and took care to mind the elite hunters who stalked the rises in search of stealthy visitors. Painted signs marked the bridges to other rises, and Kiero slunk around until she found a sign for the Elder Rise. Feeling sure she had heard this mentioned as Hamuul's home, Kiero slipped across the bridge and into the largest tent she saw.

Her powers of listening were rewarded—Hamuul was at the back of the tent, standing beneath a wall hung with beautifully decorated scrolls, surrounded by other tauren druids.

Now then, how to approach him? Kiero drew close, considering. Should she just reveal herself and hope for the best? She laid down at Hamuul's feet and rolled over, exposing the soft fluff of her belly. Then she slowly allowed herself to fade into view. Perhaps in this gesture of submission she would be understood.

"Why, hello there," Hamuul said.

"Greetings, Shan'do Runetotem," Kiero said. "I come bearing grim tidings. May I be permitted to speak freely?"

"All members of the Cenarion Circle are welcome under my roof."

Kieromaris shifted back to her elven form. The other tauren in the room were surprisingly undisturbed. They all smiled at her, and bowed their heads slightly. Maybe this would go better than she expected.

"What seems to be the trouble?" Hamuul asked.

Kiero explained everything, from her strange visions to their fruition in Splintertree.

"Also, some friends of mine are trying to find the cure for undeath. That's the other reason I came here—we know you and your druids have been searching for a cure."

"Have you told this story to anyone else?" Hamuul asked.

"My friends are probably talking to Thrall right now," Kieromaris said.

"I wonder how he'll take it," Hamuul said. "Anyway, you're right, we are very concerned with the plague and trying to heal our Forsaken allies. Now more than ever."

Hamuul did not ask Kiero why she chose to seek him out rather than Staghelm. She suspected that he could guess.

"Have you found anything about a possible cure?"

"A little," Hamuul said. "You might want to visit the Pools of Vision, beneath the Spirit Rise. The Forsaken there are the dedicated to uncovering the secrets of their illness." He paused. "I'll escort you."

Kiero shifted back to a panther. "Thank you. I am honored."

"Stay very close to me," Hamuul warned. "I will try to protect you if you are caught, but some tauren are more zealous than others about perceived enemies." He glanced over at Magatha Grimtotem's hut and the two surly thugs who stood outside of it. They glowered at Hamuul as he passed.

Kiero nodded and kept quiet as they walked toward the Spirit Rise. Thunder Bluff was a beautiful city, if you didn't look down. Kiero had never been fond of heights, unlike Eulalia, who sought them out, primarily for the purpose of jumping off of them to see if she would die. She would love this place.

Kiero had to think about her friend to soothe her nerves. She was doing this for the preservation of the earth, yes, but while Kiero and the earth were on good terms, it was Eulalia who had fought with her in countless battles—many of them, ironically, against the Horde. But this situation was beyond the Horde. If the Lich King subdued all the Forsaken, the Alliance would suffer first and foremost: Lordaeron was very near to a number of human settlements.

"Odd," Hamuul muttered, when they were just outside the cave's entrance. "Usually there are a couple of guards here."

Kiero could sense several humanoids within the cavern, all clustered together. She crept at his heels as he stepped inside. "Please be careful."

"Hello, friends," Hamuul called to the group of Forsaken, who were gathered in a tight circle in a corner of the cavern. A foul smell burned Kiero's nostrils, much worse than the usual decaying odor that accompanied an undead. The rot seemed to be rising with the steam off of the pools of water in the cave, and when Kiero looked down she saw that the pools had a faint crimson tint.

"Everything all right?" Hamuul asked, when the circle did not break.

"Watch out," Kiero snarled. She dashed forward and pounced on one of the Forsaken, biting into his spine. The man howled and thrashed, trying to throw her off. As she crunched his bones in her jaw, she caught sight of bloody tauren parts in the center of the circle.

"They're turned!" she said.

"We needed the guards for an experiment," a female Forsaken said. "They happily volunteered."

"After we cut out their tongues," said a male.

"So it's true," Hamuul said. "You again serve the Lich King."

In response, one of the men began to cast a spell. Arcane light shimmered between his fingers, and before Kiero could stop him, he had turned Hamuul into a sheep. He grinned, and fire crackled in his hands.

But with a roar, Hamuul broke free, his muscles rippling as they shed the white wool for the coarse coat of a bear. He charged the mage and knocked him senseless. "Trying that trick on a druid! You really have lost your minds."

Guards responded to the commotion in the cave, and as the small space filled, one of the undead stepped away from the crowd. He opened a portal to a place Kiero didn't recognize and motioned for the other Forsaken to follow him. They hissed and spat at their attackers, and then left, the portal closing behind them.

Hamuul pawed the ground in frustration. "We need to search for any notes or diaries, Kieromaris. Otherwise any discoveries they managed to make will be lost to us."

He regained his bovine form and instructed the guards to send messengers to the other capitals.

"Over here," Kiero said, from the top ledge of the cavern. "There are a few books on this mushroom cap. But they're all written in Gutterspeak …"

"Do you know anyone who speaks that language?" Hamuul asked. "Anyone who isn't insane with hate for you and all other life?"

Kiero sighed. "Sort of."

---

That's all for now!


	6. Fishing With Daggers

Zomg, I know it's been forever--blame graduate school and playing WoW of course. But it's summer now and I am a bum, so expect moar soonlike! Thanks for the comments so far!

Fishing With Daggers

"Hey, Cian," Eulalia whispered. "Are we in trouble?"

"Yeah," Cian said. "We're in trouble."

The two guards glared back at them. The troll said, "When we landed, we were attacked by an Alliance raid. At least fifteen of them were waiting for us. These women and that traitor set us up."

"Oh aye, ye've caught us out, laddie," Ingomar snapped. "We created an elaborate ruse tae sneak intae tha city for tha sole purpose of luring two guards to Splintertree and an untimely death. Brilliant deductions!"

The orc spat blood. "These wounds didn't show up out of the void, wench."

"Look, Alliance raid that city all th' time," Ingomar said. The crowded court muttered. "Oh, button it, ye lot are always up in Astranaar makin' a mess as well."

"It's true, I have a second job guarding that place," Eulalia said seriously.

"What's your first job?" Cian said under his breath.

"General huntering," Eulalia replied with a smile, pleased to have contributed to the conversation.

"The point is," Ingomar said. "if indeed ya were attacked by Alliance, none of us had anything tae do with it. Why in the name of the Light would we slaughter an entire outpost and then break into its capital city?!"

"You tell us!" the troll said.

"We wouldn't," Ingomar growled.

"I find myself in a dilemma," Thrall said. "While I admit that I cannot fathom the logic behind your alleged actions, you're asking me to take your word over that of my trusted guard."

"I'm this close tae insistin' on it, actually," Ingomar said.

Cian cleared his throat. "Warchief, we were only passing through Ashenvale. We never would have entered the outpost if not for the massacre we encountered upon arrival. And the sole reason we came here was to meet with you and inform you of the situation."

"Liar," the troll guard shouted. "You tried to draw us to our deaths!"

"And, how exactly did you escape versus fifteen Alliance?" Cian said shrewdly.

The orc swallowed. "We … we ran very quickly."

"All the way to the Crossroads? With those wounds?" Cian said.

"Warchief, why are you allowing this traitor to speak?" the troll cried.

"I don't know," Thrall said. He turned his head slightly, and said to the nearest Kor'kron elite, "Please silence the traitor."

Cian tensed, and gripped his knives. To resist would perhaps confirm the untruth leveled against him, but he'd be twice-damned if he went down without a fight. Next to him, Ingomar and Eulalia assumed battle stances, and he felt sudden camaraderie with them. Whatever fate awaited them in the next five seconds, they bore it together.

The elite guard swung her heavy axe and decapitated the wounded troll. Before the look of surprise even formed on the orc's face, he lost his head as well. Eulalia gasped as the two heads rolled to a stop at Thrall's feet, their eyes bulging, their mouths open. Cian didn't relax. He stared at the Warchief and waited.

"Umm," Eulalia said. "I got to be honest, I didn't really catch what all you just said a second ago, but I'm pretty sure it involved not trust us over your trusted people … trolls … orcs … things."

"Indeed," Thrall said. "However, the two before you were not my trusted guards."

The Kor'kron elite peeled back the chest armor on the troll's body, revealing a Burning Blade medallion around his bloody stump of a neck: a picture of a sword engulfed in flames, carved into a golden circle.

"Pretty necklace," Eulalia said.

"More than that. It is a symbol of a rather unpleasant infestation from which this city has been suffering," Thrall said. "Though why they would be interested in framing you escapes me, except as a diversionary tactic …"

"Da Scourge and da Burnin' Legion have an interestin' history, you know?" An'jin said, from the back of the court. "Technically da Scourge are a rogue element of the Burnin' Legion's plans … but when a rogue's doins' support your forthcomin' goals, you'd support him, wouldn't ya?" He looked at Cian while he spoke.

"Seriously, I think he's got a wee crush on ya, laddie," Ingomar murmured.

Cian grunted. "Please."

"I agree, An'jin," Thrall said.

"Can we go now?" Eulalia said. "Cos we're innocent an' all and I got a quest and I'd like to get it done before Cian goes all crazy nuts and tries to kill us."

"You are a good friend, Eulie," Cian said dryly.

She beamed. "I know!"

"Yes, you may go," Thrall said. "With the proviso that you return here in three weeks' time with a progress report."

"Let me guess," Cian said. "An'jin will be checking in?"

The mage clapped a hand on Cian's shoulder. "Ya catch on pretty quick for a dead man."

Cian shrugged him off. "Come on, ladies."

"Ah ah," An'jin said. "It's not safe for ya to be walkin' around the city, even if on your way out. You've got everyone's blood up." His blue hands glowed with arcane energy, and in a moment a portal opened before them. Cian could see the pillars of Darnassus's Moon Temple reflected within the shimmering oval. "Hop in."

"Byeee everyone!" Eulalia curtsied before the court. The guards were impassive, Vol'jin nonplussed, and Thrall smiled—slightly. Eulalia flipped into the portal. Before she followed, Ingomar said, "Thanks for nae killin' us, yer Warchiefness."

Cian paused. "Why Darnassus?"

"You're going to Moonglade, aincha?" An'jin said.

"How do you know that?" Cian said.

An'jin shrugged. "I pay attention."

Cian shook his head. "Later."

"Count on it, mon."

Cian entered the portal and slipped into stealth as soon as the Moon Temple materialized around him. Whatever the propaganda surrounding night elves—that they were arrogant, foolish, insufferably asinine tree-hugging lunatics—Cian had to admit they built a beautiful city. A statue of Elune, the night elf goddess, loomed high over him, her stone arms upraised, lifting a bowl of overflowing water to the sky. The water spilled out over every side in multiple waterfalls, splashing into a pond of lilies at the goddess's feet. Priestesses of Elune—along with Sentinels—attended the statue, some kneeling in prayer. A winding ramp created a series of levels to the temple, and at the very top was Tyrande Whisperwind, legendary High Priestess of Elune. Cian wanted to say hi, but figured her reaction to him would be about the same as Orgrimmar's reaction to Eulie and Ingomar. And they definitely weren't dropping in on the Archdruid.

"I'd be rooted so fast my feet would pop off," Cian muttered. "Again."

"What are ye babblin' about, laddie?" Ingomar said. "We've got tae move quickly before yer spotted and we go through the whole 'Why are ye SPYIN' nonsense again."

"Sorry, your highness," Cian said. "But I can't go any faster unless you WANT me to be caught."

"We can just walk," Eulalia said. "It is a nice day."

The two women walked close to Cian and tried not to look directly at him—not that Ingomar ever liked that in the first place.

"It's jes tha' lookin' right at ya makes me skin start breakin' out in wee hives, ya ken?" she said.

Actually, Cian looked downright handsome in comparison to some of his fellow corpses. Nina carved his heart out with a dagger slicked in the Plague's liquid form, so he had risen for the Scourge right after his rigor mortis had subsided. Of course, there was the permanently gaping chest wound …

Eulalia handed him the orb of deception. "If you want, you could use this. It's really not that far to the gate."

Cian thumbed the orb's surface. If the spell wore off, he could simply vanish, so why not? He activated the spell. The orb's magic seeped into his bones, his flesh, the viscous ichor of his blood. Its transformative power was total. When the magic finished, he had become a night elf.

Eulalia clapped her hands excitedly, hopping from foot to foot with barely contained glee. "You look so nice! I mean, not that you didn't look nice before, but now you look really nice … I mean …"

"Now I don't look like a monster," he said. Even his voice was different, his echoing scratch replaced by something cool and smooth and prideful. He hated the cocky way male night elves spoke, but now that their voice was his, it didn't seem so bad.

Also, he was taller. Taller even than Eulalia. He liked that.

Darnassus was an airy, expansive city, but sparsely populated—many of the night elves who kept homes there spent most of their time in other cities, on other continents. Primarily young elves passed them, neophytes who wouldn't know what to do with a Forsaken if one tapped them on the shoulder. They reached the portal to Ru'theran without interference. Four and a half minutes remained of Cian's disguise.

"Now what?" he said.

"Now we get on the boat to Auberdine," Eulalia said.

"And then? I don't think the hippogriff master will let me buy a ride, and this disguise will be spent by then."

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it!" Eulalia said. "Come on, or we'll miss the boat!"

She grabbed his hand and broke into a run, pulling him alongside her with an exuberant grin. Three minutes.

"Don' ye two look cute," Ingomar said. "I wunner if that magic stops yer fingers fallin' off, laddie?"

"A paragon of wit, as always," Cian sneered.

"Thank ye, I try."

"I think you look cute," Eulalia said. She touched his bearded chin. "Could do without this, tho'."

"Well," he said slyly, "I don't have it normally."

Her fingers were warm, tickling. He felt the gentle friction of skin and hair, a virtue of the orb's power. Two minutes.

They boarded the boat, and Ingomar sprawled out on the nearest hammock. "Time for a power nap. Wake me when we reach shore, aye?"

On any other day, Cian would have taken this opportunity to nick a stack of Ingomar's holy symbols and give them a new life as buried treasure, or at least shorten her braids (unevenly). But he had a minute and a half left of red blood and beating heart. He wasn't about to waste it.

He followed Eulalia to the ship's upper deck and sat down beside her, where she perched on a couple of boxes secured to the deck with nets. Thumping down on the planks, Cian folded his big hands over his knees. He could almost feel his muscles rippling, particularly in the joints of his knees and elbows. How he missed those. Eulalia hovered over him, rocking back and forth on her haunches, her ponytail brushing his bare shoulder.

"I always found it funny," she said, "that this disguise doesn't come with a shirt."

The evening breeze buffeted against his chest. "I don't mind. Do you mind?"

"If I didn't need stuff to protect me against other stuff, I wouldn't wear anything at all," Eulalia said, so earnestly that Cian was too surprised to blush.

"Don't look at me like that," she said. "Like you didn't know!"

"Listen," he muttered, "Whenever you went off for your _frequent_ baths, I _never_ looked at you, okay? Not once, not ever."

Thirty seconds. She slipped off the box, now directly next to him, and leaned back against his chest. "I would not have minded."

The enchantment began to fade. His body shrunk, his blood froze, and the soft thwump thwump of a heart stilled. Muscle and skin fell away and drained of color, his ears shortened, and his features became scarred and pale. "That was nice while it lasted," he said.

Eulalia exhaled and shrugged. She did not move.

---

When Hamuul Runetotem and Kieromaris returned to the archdruid's dwelling, a messenger was waiting outside. The young orc looked at Kiero with crossed eyes, trying to sort out the logic of her presence, but he hastily handed over his letter. Hamuul thanked him before unrolling the parchment, which bore Thrall's seal.

"It appears that our allies have been apprised of the situation," he said to Kiero. "Thrall is calling for a summit of Horde leaders in two days' time."

He paused. "Cairne is likely on his way to discuss this matter with me. You should be getting along, young druid. I am sorry that I was unable to assist you more fully with your quest—but perhaps that book will reveal something of use."

Kiero bowed before the archdruid. "Yes, I do hope so. Thank you for your hospitality."

She ducked behind Hamuul's tent and channeled a teleportation spell for Moonglade. Obviously, her friends had gotten out of Ogrimmar safely, but would she find them in Nighthaven? Preoccupied with this worry, Kiero finished the spell without noticing who was watching her.

From the shadows of her tiny hut, Magatha Grimtotem observed. The thin line of her mouth remained fixed, but her lidded eyes opened, subtly, subtly.

---

Although the boat itself wasn't guarded, a couple of Sentinels kept watch over the dock. Just as the vessel approached shore, Cian tromped into the berth and jabbed Ingomar's side with the pommel of his dagger. "Wake up, sunshine."

"Oh aye," she yawned. "In a minnit, lad."

"Last one to touch sand is a naga's egg," Cian said. Thus challenged, Ingomar sat upright in her hammock as Cian sprinted back onto the deck.

"That ain't fair!" she cried. "With yer roguish fastness an' all!"

"Less talk, more walk!" he shouted, and jumped off the ship's edge, into the icy bath of the Long Wash.

"Ooh, are we racing?" Eulalia said. She leapt off the boat as soon as it pulled up to the dock and ran, easily reaching the sand bank beneath the flight master before either of her friends. Cian spat out saltwater and seaweed and said, "Not fair."

Beside him, a dwarf fisherman dropped his line in abject terror and quaked. "Please don' shiv me, lad! I ain' worth nothin' to ya!"

Cian put a finger to his lips and faded into stealth. "Keep it down." To Eulalia and Ingomar he said, "Let's move on before this one starts screaming for guards."

"Aww, do we have ta?" Ingomar said.

"I don't relish the prospect of fighting off thirty Sentinels."

"But _I_ relish the prospect of ye fightin' off thirty Sentinels," Ingomar said.

Eulalia called for her mount and beckoned for the others to follow. "I do not think we want that to happen. They would expect us to stay behind and pick up all the mess."

Cian waited until they were well outside Auberdine city limits to summon his skeletal horse. The three traveled swiftly down the road, passing a number of inexperienced night elves testing their mettle versus ghosts, bears, furbolgs and of course insane death cultists. But for them, the ride was peaceful, and peace invited thought.

Remnants of sensation from the night elf body lingered in Cian's bones, fresh enough that he still heard the echo of an artificial pulse. He missed his heart. Nina had carved it out carefully, whole and neat. The last image his living eyes had seen was her hand, smeared and dripping with blood, clutching his hot, glossy heart, its veins bulging as it shuddered to a halt. He wore a thin shirt under his leather vest at all times, to hide the wound that had never healed. Still, on that day when he threw off his armor in front of Eulalia, she hadn't even remarked on the gaping hole between his splintered ribs. She had seen it, he knew, by the look on her face—but as with the rest of him, it didn't bother her. Her expression then belied more simple surprise than disgusted horror—if Ingomar saw the wound, she would surely cluck her tongue and retort about the Light and abominations thereof.

Inwardly, Cian sighed. More than pumping blood, he missed the expansive feeling of filling his lungs with air, of feeling it disperse throughout his cells, missed that thoughtless, life-affirming action enjoyed by all the other mortal races. He still drew in air, of course. But that wasn't breathing. That was wind rattling a broken window.

Bitterness overcame him. Eulalia and Ingomar had fun with their disguises, both the magic wand costumes during Hallow's End and the glamours of the orb of deception. But they had gained nothing from them that they hand't already possessed, lost nothing that couldn't easily be returned.

The sound of a woman's agitated voice broke him from his brooding. They had just passed the border between Darkshore and Ashenvale, and an elderly woman blocked the road in front of them, pacing and speaking loudly to herself. "Come to Ashenvale, they said! It's _enchanted_, they said! Night elves are _friendly_! The beaches are tranquil! Naga? Oh, no one's seen them for a hundred years. Rubbish."

"Excuse me, ma'am," Ingomar said, "but are ye in need 'o assistance?"

The woman behaved as though she hadn't heard and went on, "Nasty fish people with their bloody tridents and stick you in place spells! A frostbolt to the face is no way to greet an old woman. And, and, they took …"

Here she began to cry, great halting sobs that pooled in the wrinkles of her cheeks. "They took it, they did, those awful fish men … my daughter's necklace … my dear, departed daughter …"

"Do you want us to get it for you?" Eulalia asked.

"We don't have time for this," Cian said. "Moonglade is still days away!"

"Aye, but it's gettin' dark. We oughter be able to slash up some naga right quick for this lassie before makin' camp again."

The woman perked up, her face suddenly dry and glowing. "Oh, you'd do this for me?"

"A'course, ma'am," Ingomar said, half-bowing on her saddle.

"Thank you, kind travelers … I can't tell you how much this means to me …"

"Any particular fellow have it?" Cian said impatiently.

"It was one of those sea-witches," the woman said. "She slithered off with it into those temple ruins down there."

"Blackfathom Deeps?" Cian said.

"Yes, dear, if that's what they're called."

"This could take a while …"

"We already agreed tae do it. Quit yer bellyachin' and let's get on with it," Ingomar said.

"See you soon, ma'am!" Eulalia called, while Cian grumbled, "I don't recall agreeing to anything."

"But since we agree, you agree by extension!" Eulalia said. "It'll be fun. The Deeps are pretty."

"Yes, quite a lovely place, if you disregard the fact that everything in there wants to kill us."

"Scared?" Ingomar said.

They pulled up to the ruins' entrance—a dilapidated staircase, half-submerged in water.

"Never," Cian said, and dove in. The ancient temple, once a shrine dedicated to Elune, had long ago sunk into the earth—but intact enough that various groups had moved in to use it for their nefarious purposes. Chief among the recent inhabitants were the Twilight's Hammer cult, a group associated with the Shadow Council and worship of the old gods, but naga, murlocs, crab-men, and even satyrs roamed its damp caverns and once-sacred halls.

Cian crawled out of the water and onto the moist floor of an underground cavern, lit by soft, electric-blue lights that swirled around thick roots sprouting from the walls. Eulalia surfaced next, followed by Ingomar, both belabored by their heavier armor. Ingomar unhooked her breastplate and dumped the contents onto the porous, mud-colored ground. Eulalia lowered her head and shook her hair out like a dog, spattering Cian and Ingomar with droplets from her ponytail.

Ingomar raised her shield and said, "Oi, watch yer aim, lassie. I'm right wet enough."

"Sorree," Eulalia said.

Something hissed and spat near Cian's ear. He faded into the shadows just before the sea witch rounded the corner, her multiple arms reaching, her clawed hands raking across the mossy stones that jutted from the cavern's walls. Her golden eyes, huge almonds set in a face as flat and sharp as an arrowhead, slit angrily at the sight of the intruders. Two of her six hands shimmered blue, and the air hummed with the sound of gathering frost. Cian crept up behind her and drove his two daggers into her back. Her casting stopped, she choked and gurgled, and then slumped over backwards onto her tail.

He searched the corpse for a necklace, but found nothing except a clam and a fistful of coins tucked into the naga woman's scales.

"It's never on the first one," he said.

"Where would the fun be in that?" Eulalia said.

They pressed on into the caverns, killing their way through the dimly lit passages, soaking the soil in black and red blood from the bodies of satyr and naga. Eventually, the cavern's ceiling opened up, when they reached the temple ruins proper. The cavern floors dipped into a deep pool, in which lay the fragments of the drowned sacellum's floor.

"I was kinda hopin' we'd find the necklace before we got tae this bit," Ingomar admitted, frowning warily at the cracked marble stones, which offered a precarious path to the next hallway.

"Suck it up," Cian suggested, leaping nimbly from block to block. Eulalia hopped back and forth like a rabbit fed sugar, trying to encourage her friend. "It's easy, see?"

"You're nae the ones wearin' plate," Ingomar said, but at length she breathed deep, stepped forward, and launched herself onto the first block of stone. She cleared the jump, but took a moment to rest, panting from nerves and exertion. Cian waited for her at the end of the obstacle course, but Eulalia's attention soon wandered. She delved deeper into the ruins, slinging arrows at whatever scuttled, slithered, or merely slunk quietly by her path.

"She'll have finished up this whole place by the time you get here," Cian said.

"So be it!" Ingomar shouted. "I've been known to take my time in life or death matters. Call it a weakness."

She inhaled and vaulted towards the penultimate stone, but the jump fell short. Grabbing onto a crevice in the rock, Ingomar dangled a few feet above the pool and thrashed in panic. "A lil help!"

Cian licked his lips. He bent down beside her, considering. She looked up at him, green eyes saucer-wide with terror. Beneath her, in the water, the crab-men gathered, their pincers clicking in anticipation.

Calling Ingomar his friend would be an overstatement, bordering on a lie. She was a self-righteous, crude, hammer-swinging midget, full of noxiously zealous ideals and booze. But those ideals had prompted her, at least in part, to heal his broken bones in the Ratchet inn. He could see past his instinctual dislike of her enough to understand that. And, frankly, she had treated him with more respect than many of her kind would or had. Whether it was on Eulalia's account or not didn't matter—people truly blinded by hate set aside all allegiances in order to satisfy that hate. Ingomar hadn't.

Cian snatched Ingomar's wrist and hauled her up, then said, "I'm tired of wasting time," and hefted her fully into his arms for the final jump. When his feet hit dirt, he dropped her, and prepared for a firestorm of indignant rage.

Instead, Ingomar patted down her hair, smoothed her cloak, and said, "Thank ye."

Gruffly, he said, "You're welcome."

And they moved on.

---

They knew Eulalia's path by the trail of prostrate bodies she left in her wake. When they caught up with her, she was finishing off two cultists outside the temple's sanctum.

"Hey guys!" she shouted, over the crunch of spine and spurt of blood as she drove her polearm through a geomancer, impaling him with the kind of carefree joy Cian associated with the cutting of birthday cakes. Her cat gnawed on the dwarf's arm after he fell, to be sure he was dead.

"Ach," Ingomar said. "I've got a cousin who wears 'is beard like tha'," she said, frowning at the body. "I hope that ain't you, Sammy."

"He cried something about gladly dying for the glory of the master just before I stuck him," Eulalia said. "Soo maybe he's happier now?"

"I don' think that's really him," Ingomar said. "Sammy's not the type tae go chasin' after esoteric knowledge. He can barely count tae three." She shrugged. "Swings a mighty fine axe, tho'."

"Eulalia," Cian said. "Did you find anything that might possibly resemble what we're looking for?"

"Uuum," Eulalia sat down amidst the gore and opened her bags. She took out a number of unopened clams, waterlogged weapons, vials of fish oil, and patches of scales.

"Mebbe this?" she said, holding up a necklace with a glowing dragon-shaped pendant.

Cian produced an identical necklace from a pouch on his belt. "That's your Drakefire Amulet, Eulalia."

"Oh. Damn," she said. "No, then."

"I wonder if that old woman was putting us on," Cian said. "You must have killed every sea witch in here."

He paced to the edge of the platform on which they stood, and stared thoughtfully at the water. The temple's sanctum had survived the sinking remarkably well, but much of the patch leading there was drowned, or at the very least surrounded. Waterfalls poured in from cracks in the earthen ceiling, spilling over the remains of pillars without a roof to support. The gentle splish of water against ivory created a deceptively peaceful atmosphere, one contradicted by the hostile cultists that congregated there.

Most of them were dead now though, except the few directly inside the temple's main shrine, the only part of the building that retained its roof. Cian wondered if the naga and cultists ever skirmished, and if, in such a fray, the necklace would have been stolen. He kept his eyes on the water as he considered this, and consequently noticed a curious movement just under the water's surface. Ripples of movement, but nothing to cause the rippling. A lithe body faded in and out. A glint of daggers. Another rogue? A cult assassin?

"Wait here a moment," he said to his companions. "I believe we're being watched."

"I don' see anythin'," Ingomar said.

"Exactly," Cian said. He slipped carefully into the water, then stealthed. Then listened.

He heard legs kicking through water, but where? Cian looked down and spotted a treasure chest near to one of their platform's support columns. He swam closer, observing. A figure faded into focus: a night elf, with blue hair and red markings on her cheeks. She scooped the gold and jewelry out of the chest excitedly, stuffing the money into her top and dropping the rings into an already laden bag. Cian swam up to her, hidden, and tapped her shoulder.

Startled, the night elf drew her bag close and stepped back, then vanished. Cian swam down deeper. Soon the woman would need to breathe. He, however, could wait.

A full minute passed, and nothing broke the water's surface. Cian frowned. Surely this woman wasn't fool enough to drown on his account.

He swam closer to the pillar, listening carefully for the whoosh of treading water, or the whisper associated with a cloaked target. Near the top of the column, he found her, floating as quietly as could be.

Before he could speak, a series of waves pushed them both back, in tandem with a loud splash on the surface. Eulalia's body and then her head appeared, turning wildly this way and that. The night elf rogue dropped her stealth and swam out from beneath the pillar, rising at last for air. Cian followed.

"Linnaris!" Eulalia cried, upon seeing the night elf's face.

"Hey, Eulie," Linnaris said, smiling.

"Linn!" Ingomar cried, rushing to embrace the rogue, squeezing her so tight that Cian heard the leather squelch. "Bit moist there, lass."

Linnaris reached into her vest and spread out her fingers, each with a coin between them. "Treasure down thar!" She paused. "Well, not anymore, I guess, as I took it all." Another pause, then, "Say, I picked up a stalker. You should watch out for him."

Cian rolled his eyes and climbed onto the platform. "I was investigating you."

"Oh, really?" Linnaris said. "Could've been a little less creepy about it, you think?"

"I didn't know who you were!" Cian protested.

"I will explain!" Eulalia said. "Cian, Linnaris is our old special friend. Linnaris, Cian is our old special friend. Done!"

"I see," Linnaris said, her smile curling into a smirk. "So you were trying to protect them from mysterious ole me, huh?"

"Well, I—" Cian stumbled. "Maybe."

"I'm just a good-natured gold digger," Linnaris said. "Nothing to fear here!"

"Right," Cian said. "How exactly were you able to hold your breath that long?"

"Umm …" Linnaris said. "Trade secret."

"We're of the same trade."

"Then you ought to know!"

"No," Cian said. "I know how I hold my breath, specifically the fact that _I_ don't need to _breathe_."

"Showoff," Linnaris said, then, quickly, "Heey, so what's the happy haps, guys?"

"An old woman sent us to recover her daughter's necklace," Ingomar said. "Nae luck so far."

"And I've killed every naga I could find," Eulalia added.

Linnaris blanched. "You have …?"

Eulalia nodded.

"Why would you care?" Cian said.

"Oh, uh, no reason, just that, they are sentient beings, and I've always been known for my activism regarding malevolent sea creature rights …" Linnaris said. "Eheh."

Cian noticed a little smile tugging at the corners of Ingomar's mouth. These people weren't telling him something. Growling in his throat, he said, "Whatever. We're wasting time again. Let's see if these cultists took the damn thing."

He snuck up inside the shrine, dispatching two warlocks before his busily chatting companions even entered. While he systematically murdered the remaining cultists and their demon pets, Eulalia and Ingomar recounted their adventures thus far to Linnaris, who listened with enthusiasm.

Still, he found nothing.

"Would you ladies quiet down?" he said, gesturing to Kelris, lord of the Twilight's Hammer cult, praying before the altar in the center of the room. His eyes were shut and his body pulsed with moving shadows as he murmured arcane phrases to the statue erected on top of the altar. The statue appeared to be of a female night elf in transformation: her top half retained the plump cheeks and full lips of her original race, but her lower half was serpentine, and two extra pairs of slender arms grew from her torso. Her delicate fingers curled elegantly, her limbs angled and arranged as though she were about to dance. Four votive candles in brass saucers were placed at the corners of the altar, though none were lit.

A vague memory of these candles came to Cian, but the particulars were hard to draw out. Something about Eulalia and a pile of dead crabs. He shook his head.

"What's to worry about? He doesn't even know we're here," Linnaris said. She pulled a throwing star from inside her boot and threw it at Kelris's head. The orc crashed against the altar, the shadows dissipated, and his blood dripped off of the altar's edges. The statue seemed to smile.

"Guess that's one way to do it," Cian said. He rifled through Kelris's pockets, grinning when he touched cool metal. He held out the necklace for the others to see: it was a circle of silver, suspended from a heavy chain. Carved into the silver was an outline of an eye with a ruby iris that glinted as it twisted in the air. "I think we have a winner. Let's get the hell out of here."

"One sec," Eulalia said, as she lit the final candle. "I just thought these little guys looked unloved."

Green fire burned on the wicks, and Cian groaned.

"I don't think ye ought to've done that, lass," Ingomr said, as the ground rumbled. Several sets of monsters emerged from the dark corners of the shrine, aiming to converge on the delicious, meat filled party by the altar.

"Do you have a memory like a sieve?" Cian cried, hopping on one foot to avoid the grabby pincers of far too many angry crustaceans.

"What's a sieve?" Eulalia asked, as she thunked a snapping turtle on the head.

A serrated pincer cut into Cian's ankle. He seethed. "Your _brain_, Euls. Your brain."

Ingomar clapped her hands together and a swirl of holy light burst forth around her feet. The stone hissed as it burned, seared by the Light, and their attackers crackled in pain. Eulalia threw off two small but vicious crabs clinging to her arms and distanced herself from the fray. She drew a handful of arrows from her quiver and as she shot them, they multiplied from each other, creating a hail of arcane-powered arrows that pierced the assault of turtles, water elementals, and crabs with varying degrees of humanity. Linnaris and Cian cleaned up the remains with their daggers, until finally their enemies were reduced to so much seafood.

"This'll be tasty with a lil butter an' seasonin'," Ingomar said, as she stuffed any intact crabs into her packs.

"Yay, dinner!" Eulalia said.

Behind the altar, tall double doors began to open. The moons inscribed on the green marble flashed as they drew back, and Eulalia, attracted by the shine, inched towards the open doors.

"No," Cian said. "We're leaving."

"But there's an exit up there," Linnaris said.

"I don't remember an exit."

"Dunno why you would," Eulalia said. "You passed out in here, after all."

"What!" Cian cried. "Ridiculous! Why would I pass … out …"

Aku'mai, the hydra pet of the old gods, roared at the four interlopers in her chamber. Eulalia pointed at her. "She bit you really hard."

Steeling himself, Cian unsheathed his daggers and sidled up to the beast. "Time to return the favor, then."

But just as he raised his weapons to strike, three arrows landed in each of Aku'mai's throats. A shower of blood burst from the wounds, discoloring the shallow pool of water around them.

"Sorry, Cian," Eulalia said. "I got excited."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, of course. Let's just get back up top so we can call this done."

Another altar was at the the back of Aku'mai's lair, tucked beneath a small waterfall pouring between the rocks. The pedestal was no more than five feet tall, but it was topped with a pearl the size of Cian's head. Touching its iridescent surface teleported everyone back to the beach.

"That would've looked good in my bags," Linnaris said of the pearl, wistfully.

"Or stuffed in yer bra," Ingomar giggled.

Dear Dark Lady, Cian thought, please let the next member of our party be a man.

He strode ahead of the women on the way to the road, slowed as they were by renewed conversation. Their words buzzed around his ears like gnats, he couldn't catch a definite thread of discussion even if he stopped.

Night had come in earnest, darkening the shadows of the forest to ominous proportions. On the beach, the sand and sea reflected Azeroth's luminous moon, shimmering enough to see by, but the forest's canopy reduced the moon's illumination to thin shafts. Cian retraced their steps until he saw the night elven lamps dotting the path for travelers. The crone sat on the stones, her expression unreadable at a distance. As he approached, she leapt to her feet and clasped her hands in anticipation.

Cian dangled the necklace from his fingers. "Is this what you wanted, ma'am?"

The woman took the necklace and clutched it to her chest, stroking the ruby iris with her thumb. "Yes, dear, exactly what I wanted."

The eye began to glow, and Cian took a step back, but the woman caught his arm in a vice grip. Her nails shifted to talons.

"Damn it," Cian said. "I've just handed you your symbol of power, haven't I? You don't even have a daughter, do you?"

"Oh, no, dearie," the woman said. "I have a daughter, and this is her necklace. She'll be so pleased to hear you were the one to retrieve it. She thinks of you often, still."

Disarmed, Cian stopped struggling to free himself from the woman's grasp, enough his bones were cracking from the pressure. Wincing, he spat, "What?"

Eulalia and the others reached the road just as the woman pressed her forefinger against Cian's cheek, leaving an arcane sigil on his skin. "My daughter, Vivian. Or Nina, as you knew her."

"Hey, what are you doing to Cian?" Eulalia said. "This doesn't look like friendly talk."

With his free hand, Cian drew his dagger and stabbed the woman in the stomach, but his knife bit only air. Laughing, the woman released him, and a portal opened up behind her.

Sudden pain coursed through his body, and Cian crumpled to his knees. His vision hazed, the trees blurred, and the woman became an intangible swirl of cloak and skirt.

"Enjoy your reward, Cian—with deepest love from my daughter to you," the woman said, before exiting through the portal. Eulalia attempted to charge in after her, but the portal sealed itself immediately, leaving the night elf confused and frustrated.

"I think that nice old lady was not actually nice at all!" she cried.

"Possibly not even old or a lady, either," Ingomar said.

Cian's head throbbed. "I feel like I'm being pelted with hundreds of baby gnomes," he groaned, pushing the heels of his palms against his temples.

"Ouch," Eulalia said.

"Arms … like … noodles," he gasped, trying unsuccessfully to stand. "She cursed me …" He looked pleadingly to Ingomar.

"Sorry, laddie," she said. "I'm not able to fix those."

He sank down to his knees again, his muscles aching, his head swollen like a frightened bowfish. He bent over, hands flat, forehead against the road. Every nerve was strung taut, singing in agony. The sigil on his cheek burned fiercely, triumphantly.

"We need tae get to shelter," Ingomar said.

"There's an abandoned house just a little ways on," Linnaris said.

Eulalia picked Cian up by his bony waist and slung his arm around her neck.

"My turn to be carried it seems," he said, with a wan smile at Ingomar.

She didn't look at him. "What was that all about, eh?"

"It's a long story."

Eulalia set him down on a bed inside the vacant house. She perched on her haunches beside him, flanked by Ingomar and Linnaris.

"Let's have this long story," Ingomar said.

He moaned. I know you can't cure the curse, but can't you do something?"

"I dinnae ken," she said. "But I'll give it a shot." A sphere of holy energy formed between her palms, and a shower of cool, golden light washed over him. His suffering temporarily eased, he began to speak.

"Apparently, that woman is the mother of the woman who killed me," Cian said.

"What'd ye do to her daughter?" Ingomar said.

"Only saved her life." He retold the story he had shared with Eulalia, ending with, " … and then she drove a plague-coated dagger into my chest, carved out my heart, and left me."

"…I'm sorry, lad," Ingomar said.

"Yeah, that's a real bummer," Linnaris said.

"Your condolences are appreciated. But I'd appreciate another hit of holy light a bit more."

Ingomar cast the spell again, and he sighed with relief.

"So what does she want wi' ye still?" Ingomar said.

"I don't know. I don't understand why she killed me in the first place." He rolled over onto his stomach. "The moment before she stabbed me, she had this look on her face … like it was the happiest day of her life. How could I have known it meant the last day of mine?"

"Should've left her to burn," Linnaris said, nonchalantly.

Eulalia touched Cian's hair. "He's too nice for that."

"Too stupid, more like," he said.

"No, it's definitely nice."

Cian dragged himself off the bed. "Look, I don't sleep, so one of you take this thing."

"But you're ill," Eulalia said.

"Thanks for the offer," Ingomar said, already under the covers.

"Aww, bed hog," Linnaris said. "It's cool, I can just hang from the rafters like a bat."

Cian had the suspicion that tomorrow was going to be a very long day.


	7. The Agony and the Ice Cream

Hello again, friends! I hope you are enjoying this ever more sordid tale.

The Agony and the Ice Cream

A pervasive restlessness electrified the air in Moonglade. Kieromaris sensed it the moment she materialized in Nighthaven, the tranquil village usually watched over by the Cenarion Circle wardens. But no cheerful voices greeted her, nor did any voices at all. The village was empty, though the winds whistling through the open dwellings were heavy, worrisome. Dread built up in her mind, mounting steadily towards a crescendo of panic as she searched for some living soul. Just before she gave in to a full on breakdown, she heard shouting, coming from the direction of Lake Elune'ara. Shifting into a swifter, feline form, she raced to the lake's shore, where she found a massive contingent of druids gathered before Remulos the Keeper, a powerful and wise protector of the forest (who nevertheless tended to frequently prick himself on his own woodtalon fingers).

"Druids of the Cenarion Circle!" Remulos's voice boomed over the assembly, which quieted in response. "As many of you are no doubt aware, a terrible enemy has resurged!"

Never known for her patience, Kieromaris jostled her way to the front of the crowd, upsetting tauren and night elf alike.

"I am sure you have felt the planet's struggle," Remulos rumbled, "as she battles with the renewed will of the Lich King."

The assembled wardens and druids mumbled in assent. Everyone from Nighthaven was there.

"Rest assured, I, and your leaders, have felt it too … have seen, first-hand, some of the repercussions."

Several of the tauren grunted nervously, while the night elves pursed their lips in a disapproving, but unsurprised, fashion—as though the tauren had brought home an unruly puppy without permission and it had just thoroughly soiled the rug.

"Always thought it was a blunder myself, letting those corpse people into any kind of polite society," said a male druid, his golden eyes narrowed haughtily.

"The Earthmother loves all her children," replied the tauren woman beside him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"It is true that Elune's forgiveness is boundless," the man said. "But to permit them places at your tables …"

"Is the correct and compassionate path!"

Their argument was overlapping Remulos's speech now, and he paused to admonish them. "Shadian, Araminta—this is no time for quarreling. Indeed, it is crucial that we band together …"

"Look, I'm just saying—" Shadian began, but Remulos cut him off with a wave of his gnarled hand.

"Enough," he said warningly.

Kieromaris cleared her throat. Remulos was one of the wisest creatures she knew. Perhaps she needn't wait on that fool undead to have the journal translated. "Pardon me, Keeper Remulos, but I've just been to see Hamuul Runetotem."

"Ah, yes, he should be meeting with the other Horde leaders about now," Remulos said. "Have you a message for me?"

She explained, before him and the crowd, what had happened at Thunder Bluff. Before more arguments broke out (as the increasingly tense muttering suggested they would), she raised her voice and showed everyone the journal.

"This might have some information on how to combat the Lich King's plague," she said. "Only, it's in Gutterspeak."

Many of the tauren had worked closely with the Forsaken, but of those by the lakeside, none knew how to read the language—or even hardly speak it.

"Nobody?" said Kieromaris, crestfallen.

"Truth is, we stick to Orcish, mainly," said a tauren druid near her. "They seem to use Gutterspeak just among themselves."

"I can pronounce a few phrases," said someone else. "But, um, I guess that's not much help."

"I guess I'll have to wait then," Kiero said.

"Wait for what, my child?" Remulos asked.

"I told my traveling companions to meet me here," Kiero said. "A Forsaken is with them. He'll be able to make sense of this for us."

"No!" Shadian cried. "Please, Keeper, we can't let one of them among us right now—what if he loses his mind, like the others?"

"I expect we outnumber him sufficiently," said Remulos mildly. "Still, your concern is not unwarranted. I will have some wardens assigned to you, Kieromaris—for your protection."

Kiero frowned at Shadian with burgeoning dislike. "Thank you, Keeper."

"Do not close your minds or eyes, children," said Remulos. "The earth is in an hour of deepest need. We mustn't ignore her."

The crowd nodded, and then, recognizing his words as a dismissal, dispersed.

As Kiero left the lake, intending to go for a drink in the inn, Shadian caught up with her and said, "I'm only looking out for the interests of the Circle, you know."

"I'm not fond of the Forsaken, either," Kiero told him, remembering how ready she was to kill Cian at first glance, how that readiness had not dulled in the slightest. "But you show disrespect by speaking out of turn."

"Besides," said a third voice, "if the Horde want to endanger themselves, what business is it of ours?"

Another male druid had run up alongside the two in his travel form and then shifted from cheetah to night elf shape so as not to outpace them. "Heading into town, milady?" he said to Kiero, with an inviting (and somewhat lascivious) smile. Unlike Shadian, whose dark blue face was serious and baleful, this man had open, jovial features, and he walked with a confident swagger.

"Yes," Kiero said guardedly.

"Mind if I join you?"

She shrugged.

"Name's Lojac," he went on, offering his hand. She did not take it.

Shadian smirked. "Don't think she's interested, friend."

"Give it time, give it time!" Lojac said cheerfully.

"Check back in the next thousand years," Kiero said, as they entered the inn.

They sat down at a round, wooden table decorated with a softly burning, lilac candle. Lojac called to the innkeeper, "Oi! Couple of moonberry juices over here, if you please!"

"Actually, I prefer—" Kiero began, but the innkeeper was already placing brimming goblets in front of them. Kiero sighed, sipped hers, and said, "Thanks."

Shadian ordered a morning glory dew, which was Kiero's favorite. She watched him drink it, licking her lips, and Shadian's cheeks darkened.

"Don't get the wrong idea," she murmured, as Lojac flirted with the pretty innkeeper, "it's just your drink."

"Oh …" said Shadian. "Um—do you want to switch?"

She blinked, and pushed her goblet across the table, wondering if she had misjudged him. "Sure, if you don't mind."

"So, tell me about this Forsaken friend of yours," said Shadian. "Are you sure it's really safe for him to be here?"

She saw that his young face was lined with real concern. "Trust me," she said grimly, "if he puts a toe out of line, I'll be the first to step on it."

-----

"Damn it, laddie!" Ingomar shrieked at Cian, who hovered mournfully by the bed, his sunken, glowing eyes fixed on the dwarf paladin curled up beneath the sheets. "If ye don' stop yer loomin' I'm liable to smash in what remains of yer face!"

"Please," he moaned. "It hurts." As if to punctuate the point, he doubled over, bony hands clutching at his chest. Beads of sweat dotted his sallow skin, and even the unnatural yellow of his eyes was subdued by the intensity of his pain.

Not for a moment had the old woman's curse let up—if anything, its effects worsened as the night wore on. By morning, Cian was wishing fervently for someone to end his miserable unlife.

"If you won't heal me, then just kill me," he groaned. "I can't bear this much longer."

Eulalia noted worryingly that Cian was in fact bleeding, owing to several open and oozing wounds on his legs, neck, and the fleshy part of his upper torso. Thick, green blood seeped into the floorboards beneath where he lay. Ingomar stood up on the bed and prayed for light to coalesce in her palms. A gentle coolness, like a breeze through his hair or a damp cloth pressed to his forehead, passed through Cian's body. His wounds closed, for the moment.

"Can't believe they don't teach you people how to remove curses," Cian breathed.

"I dinnae question what powers th'Light chooses tae give," Ingomar said irritably. "Now quit yer 11ooking11ing' and let's get a move on. Those druids in Moonglade will fix yeh up right quick."

So he would have to endure for the better part of a day. Fantastic.

"I made nibbles!" Linnaris called from outside. She was kneeling over a cooking fire, adding spices to a thoroughly roasted crab. Three others were already laid out on a rock behind her. "Linnaris's famous crab delight. Recipe stolen, of course."

Cian didn't feel much like eating.

"Just a bit, c'mon," Eulalia pleaded, dangling the dead, seasoned crab in front of him, in what she clearly thought was a tantalizing way.

"I don't need to eat," he rasped. "I've barely got a stomach."

"That does not change the fact," Eulalia cut the crab into thirds as she spoke, "that breakfast is the most important meal of the day." She handed him a third of crab. "Now I insist. You need your strength."

Reluctantly, he accepted the food, and as he chewed it, he had to admit that it was quite good. And he did feel better, if only a little. The curse had reduced his muscles to water, but after a bit of the crab, he had the fortitude to walk upright, albeit only for about twenty paces.

Instantly, Eulalia was at his side, helping him to his feet. "It's okay, I've got you, it's okay!"

He shrugged her off brusquely. "I'm not a child."

She smiled. "Oh, I, I know. I was only wanting to help."

He grunted, and forced his limp, aching limbs to obey. Upright again, he said, with difficulty, "I can handle it."

"Oh aye, brave lad now," said Ingomar. "Wha' happened tae 'kill me nae, I canna take no more!" She pitched her voice two octaves higher for her imitation, and Cian scowled.

"It's not even physically possible for me to achieve that register," he said.

"I'm just stayin' true tae th'essence of the thing," she said.

Another wave of pain crashed over him, and his retort choked and died in his throat.

"Come along now, children," said Linnaris.

"Just follow me, okay?" Eulalia said to him.

"Euls," he said. "I'm fine." He called for his mount, and Eulalia stared up at him uncertainly, before finally summoning her giant panther. As soon as her back turned, he leaned over and muttered into his horse's ear, "Stick close to that one."

The horse whinnied under its breath, to show that it had understood.

Cian resolved not to say another word about the pain caused by his curse, but they still stopped periodically so that Ingomar could heal him—his wounds kept re-opening, and he couldn't disguise the wet splotches of blood that he left in his wake.

"I just don't understand who'd want to be so mean to you," Eulalia said, every time they paused their journey.

"Reckon that old bat thinks you're done in by now," Ingomar said, as they were crossing the border from Ashenvale into Felwood.

"Not so sure she wanted to 'do me in," Cian mumbled weakly, barely able to grasp the reins of his horse. "Say, aren't there some druids around here …"

"Aye, just ahead. Maybe they'll do us a favor," Ingomar said.

But as their mounts cantered up to the outpost, they saw that they would receive no help from the druids there.

"Not again," Ingomar whispered.

The outpost had been completely destroyed. Not only was every living being slaughtered, but the house and two tents were in ruins. The smoldering house had been scorched by spells, and they could see corpses beneath the rubble of wood and glass. The tents had been torn down by hand, ripped to shreds by frenzied attackers who had then turned their weapons on the druids, who were lying under great swathes of tattered animal skin. The lily pond in front of the night elf house was discolored by blood, the water turned brackish by debris and gore. The stink of fear and fresh death permeated the area, and the embers still rising from the burnt house led Cian to believe that this attack had happened only hours before their arrival.

"But, how …" he said. "We killed all the undead at Splintertree … unless, unless they came from Orgrimmar."

"No," said a thin voice, and one of the apparently dead druids opened her eyes, though her mouth was stained with blood and her body was rent with deep scores. "They came from nowhere … like from a, a portal …" she coughed, spitting up more blood.

"By the Light," Ingomar said. "Stay still, lass, let me help ye …"

"I'm … beyond your powers, now," the night elf said, her words shaky and soft. Her eyes closed, then fluttered open again. "The corrupted … the moonwell, take a vial, it—we wanted to study it … I, I sent someone, but they never returned—please—only chance …" she exhaled deeply, as though satisfied, and her body went slack.

Ingomar shook her head.

"Can you bring her back?" Linnaris said. "I mean, if she's only just gone …"

Ingomar tried. For ten tense seconds, they watched her channel the spell, each of them keeping absolutely silent and still.

Many points of light sprang up in thin columns around the druid's body. But she did not stir.

Ingomar tried again, and the druid did not so much as twitch her thumb.

"One more time," Eulalia said, as Ingomar climbed back onto her horse.

"No," the dwarf said. "Nothin' doin'."

"But—"

"I told ya earlier," Ingomar said roughly, "It's outta my hands! I cannae order the world about, anymore than you or anyone else can! Let's just go."

Chagrined, Eulalia fell in step behind Ingomar, along with Cian and Linnaris. They traveled in silent gloom for a while, listening to their mounts beat the stone path, to the swoops of the giant owls flying through the trees, and to the undercurrent of menacing whispers from the forces which tainted the woods.

The atmosphere was particularly oppressive to Cian. While at the outpost, he had suffered a nasty spike of pain, directly between his temples. He had thought it was due to the curse burning in his veins, but he realized that the throb in his head was separate from the sharp pangs pricking at his skin. He heard a voice behind the headache, a horribly familiar voice, hissing commands at him, ordering him to complete the carnage and turn on his companions. He fought against his own body, which tried to draw his daggers, aiming to plunge them first into Ingomar's spine and then Linnaris's, finishing with Eulalia. The voice lingered on her the longest, and its hiss turned to a silky purr.

_She betrayed you, didn't she … she abandoned you … and look where you've ended up … Maybe if she hadn't left you, you'd still be alive, you'd be happy, you'd be—_

He shook his head, hoping to rattle the thoughts into silence. It wasn't like that. She had said it wasn't like that.

_She lies. You were a burden to her. A passing fancy. She never cared for you. She was never even your friend. She was just _bored

He wanted to rip apart his own skull and physically remove whatever had gotten into him, but such an action would probably have drawn unwanted attention. The last thing he needed was to give Ingomar a reason to start throwing exorcisms at him, so he fought to marshal his wayward impulses, even as his hands continually strayed to the daggers hanging from his belt.

Fortunately, the three women were so engrossed in Ingomar's efforts to revive the druid that they did not notice his internal war. When they set out again, he hunkered down on his horse, hiding his face against the animal's fleshless neck, gripping its reins rather more tightly than needed.

The more distance they gained from the outpost, the better he felt—in terms of the voice, anyway. The cursed sigil on his cheek throbbed painfully, sending bolts of agony through every possible nerve. His tolerance for suffering was somewhat above-average, but that meant only that he could retain consciousness and will, instead of passing out on the spot like an average Azerothian. Cian focused on the stones passing rapidly beneath his horse's hooves, trying to direct his mind away from the complaints of his body. Consciousness and will, he thought again, and he sat up on his mount, suddenly understanding. This curse—their journey to Moonglade—the ruined outpost …

Someone was actively attempting to recruit him back into the Lich King's service.

Was it Nina? But how could she have known they were traveling to Moonglade, and that they had to travel on foot because of the destruction in Ratchet?

Clearly, she had placed this curse on him in order to soften his mind to the Lich King's whisperings—for he now felt certain that was what the wretched voice was—but how could she have predicted that he would so soon pass by a place infected with the Scourge's taint?

And then—his mind seized upon the name—An'jin. Only that creepy troll knew the full extent of their movements. Cian wanted to spit, but he had lost so much blood that he could barely gather together the necessary saliva. When he next saw that traitorous troll, he was going to stab An'jin with his own tusks.

Ingomar halted their group beside a path of crumbling pillars.

"I reckon ye want ta get tae Moonglade as fast as possible," she said, looking over at Cian's hunched, bloody body with what, on a clear day, might be interpreted as concern, "but I think we ought tae make a little detour here, fer tha' druid's sake, aye?"

Cian nodded without comment. Eulalia offered her arm to him after they dismounted, but he refused, and instead limped slowly behind the group, heaving audibly. The bleeding was so pronounced that he could not even slip into stealth. Although Linnaris refrained from, for instance, doing invisible cartwheels with her tongue lolling out, he still sensed something mocking in the way she crept close to him, flaunting the ability he could not currently access.

"Why don't you go up by Ingomar," he said, out of the corner of his mouth.

"She can handle herself," Linnaris replied, also in low tones.

"So can I!" he whispered fiercely.

"Listen, guy," said Linnaris, with the air of someone whose patience well had just dried up, "I understand you're having some unpleasant times over there, but we've all been trying to look out for you today. It wouldn't kill you to slow down the surly gloom train, mister." She nodded at Eulalia, who was cooing obliviously to her pet tiger, "Especially for Euls."

He knew that she was, of course, correct, though being chastised certainly didn't improve his mood. Rather than press the losing argument, he stumped along quietly, and when his knees buckled from a fresh onslaught of white-hot agony, he did not rebuff Eulalia's help.

However, when she tried to hoist him onto her back, he had to draw the line. "No."

"But, it'd be easier for you …" she said, putting him down reluctantly.

"I am not riding piggyback into a mass of bloodthirsty cultists," he said. "It is simply not going to happen."

"Actually," said Ingomar, "this place is 11ooking' a wee bit deserted at the mo'."

The barrow dens they approached had long ago been converted into a hold for the Shadow Council, and the area was usually populated by the cult's guards and warlocks. But no one waited for them outside the Shrine of the Deceiver, and they met no opposition as they continued towards the corrupted moonwell.

"Maybe they are having lunch?" Eulalia suggested.

"I think not, lassie," said Ingomar, coming upon the corpse of an orcish adept. She nudged the body and frowned. "He's got curse marks all over'im."

Cian's breath hitched. Was Nina here? Was this the last phase of an elaborate trap?

"Halloo!" Someone a few feet to his left squeaked. Turning his head, Cian saw a gnome sitting on top of a fallen pillar, his stubby legs swinging back and forth. An imp that almost matched its master in size did backflips beside him. Singed ice cream cones littered the dead grass around the pillar.

"Viraj!" Eulalia cried, striding over to envelop the gnome in an excruciating hug.

"I have to ask," said Cian, "are you friends with the entire goddamn world?"

"I hope so!" Eulalia said.

Linnaris mussed Viraj's hair affectionately. "What's up, little man?"

"Ice cream break," said Viraj, taking another pink-topped cone from his bags. His hands were already sticky with strawberry streaks, and the tips of his fingers were covered with pale welts. The imp leaned forward to accept the treat, and the ice cream sizzled as it touched the unholy flames surrounding the demon's body. Cian watched in amazement as the imp lapped eagerly at the rapidly disappearing ice cream, racing against its own flames, tasting what it could. When Viraj's fingers began to burn, he dropped the cone, and it joined the pile already accumulated on the grass.

He said, offhandedly, "You seem to have a stray undead following you! Shall I finish it off?"

"Go ahead," said Cian. "I'm sure your curses can't be much worse than what I'm getting on with."

The gnome's blackened fingers turned still darker. "I would revise that opinion if I were you!"

Cian stared defiantly at Viraj, but Eulalia rapped lightly on the gnome's head. "He's our buddy." She paused. "Maybe I should write down some lines of talking for this kind of thing."

"Since when d'you know how to write?" said Linnaris, grinning.

Eulalia thought seriously for a moment and then said, "Oh, I guess it's never, isn't it?"

Ingomar coughed. "Lass, why don' ye get a bit o' that moonwell for us?"

Eulalia withdrew a vial from her bag and waded into the corrupted moonwell, scooping some of the acid-green water into the container and then corking it shut. She frowned at the vial, looking from its contents to the splatters of Cian's blood at his feet. "This kinda looks like what all is inside of you, Cian."

He glanced at it. "Yes, I suppose so."

Bending low to the ground, Eulalia dragged another empty vial across a particularly stained patch of soil. "Later when we are in a sit-down place I will have a look at this."

"We're headed to Moonglade," Linnaris said to Viraj. "Want to come with?"

"That's okay, I'm waiting on Arolaide," said Viraj. He jabbed a thumb at the barrow den. "We're gonna go in there. Kill some people. Lament the poor decorating choices. You know how it goes! Maybe we'll catch up."

"Suit yerself," said Ingomar. "Mount up again, lads."

They waved goodbye to Viraj as they left Jaedenar, except for Cian, who at that point considered a slow blink to be a noteworthy achievement.

"Not long now," Ingomar said. She looked over her shoulder at him and allowed herself a small frown of worry, since his head was down and he could not see her face.

He could do nothing but groan in response.

-----

Four drinks later, Kiero had grown weary of her company, and with possibly every sentient being capable of forming speech. Shadian, while ultimately not a bad sort, had continued to express his reservations about Cian's visit to Moonglade, while Lojac had kept up an aggressive campaign to find his way inside of her kilt. Feeling that both of these topics had exhausted their interest approximately four hours ago, Kieromaris decided it was time to take her leave.

"Listen, guys," she said, "I'm, um, gonna go for a walk around town, all right?"

"The lamps are very romantic at this time," Lojac said. "Let me join you."

"I don't think you should be alone with him," Shadian said. "I'll come too."

"No, no, listen, it's fine," Kiero said, "I, uh, could actually use some alone time, you know, before my friends get here …"

She began to back out of the inn, and in the process bumped into a swarthy, armor-clad night elf. He caught her shoulder before she fell and said, "Careful, miss."

"Sorry," she said distractedly, as both Shadian and Lojac made to follow her, apparently misunderstanding her words to mean 'please keep bothering me' as opposed to 'I swear to Elune I will bite off the next head that talks to me.'

"No need," he said, and nodded to his equally swarthy female companion. "We're here to guard you."

Kiero ground her teeth in frustration and stalked outside, trailed by the two wardens, Shadian, and Lojac. Dusk had settled over Moonglade, and if her temperament had allowed for it she would have agreed that the lamps did cast lovely plays of light over the roads. Instead she stomped past them, scowling, wondering if she would have to swim to the bottom of the lake to lose them. Except that they could transform, too. Damn it all.

Just as she was about to round on the lot of them and deliver a gale-force lecture about personal space and the importance of 'me' time, an injured warden limped into view on the road ahead. Breaking into a run, Kiero reached the warden in time to cast a quick spell to mend his wounds. His heavy armor was melted in places, and shattered by blunt force in others. His green hair was matted with sweat and blood, and Kiero observed deep, angry scores across his neck and face.

"Thank you," the warden said heavily. He swallowed, and gestured into the mist beyond. "Y-your friends have arrived, I think."


	8. My Bloody Valentine

My Bloody Valentine

Cian fought to retain consciousness. The road which cut through Felwood was drenched in his blood, its stones slippery from the acid-green ichor. Travelers that passed their party threw him disgusted looks as their mounts skidded by. But he barely registered this, or anything else, as the majority of his senses had completely shut down. He was draped over his skeletal horse, fingers clutching the reins in a vice-grip, while the rest of his body hung limp. His breath, already ragged, was pronounced and rasping like an angry snake.

Ingomar's healing no longer helped. The curse's potency increased by the minute, creating deeper and more stubborn wounds that refused to mend.

"I'm sorry, lad," Ingomar said, sounding both sincere and exhausted. "I don't reckon there's any more I can do for ye."

"S'alright," he mumbled, too weak now to be aware of the pain.

"We'll be there in the next half hour," said Linnaris. "Moonglade is just through this cave."

Thankfully, Cian was friendly with the furbolgs who inhabited the cave, so they would not pulverize his already rapidly disintegrating body.

"Woo," he said, as their mounts entered the cave—and then vanished, spooked by the damp, enclosed space. Cian collapsed and mumbled, "Damn."

He was dimly aware of strong hands lifting him up, felt himself held close against a cold breastplate, felt his head loll on the silk fabric of a shirt sleeve.

"Don't worry," said Eulalia. "I'll protect you."

He sighed, and for the first time in almost a year, he let go of himself.

---

"No one within the Undercity has been affected," said Sylvanas. Her icy echo was punctuated by the click-click of her gloved fingers on the stone table, around which the leaders of the Horde were gathered.

"That may be so, but your people are somewhat inclined to roam," Thrall pointed out. "And it is those that are our primary concern."

Sylvanas stared at him, and he could trace no emotion in the chalky marble of her face—no defiance, no rage, and no conciliation.

"What would you have me do?" she said. "If they are too weak to resist the Lich King's will, I am sorry for suffering their presence in the first place."

Thrall realized that chinks had been gouged out of the stone beneath Syvlanas's hands. She was not angry. She was livid.

"I have always encouraged the destruction of the Scourge," she said. "That includes any Forsaken who fall back onto that path."

"Do you not wish to aid them?" asked Cairne.

Sylvanas considered the tauren chieftain before replying, "If they can no longer help themselves, they deserve no help from me."

"So, you mean to say…" Thrall began, trying to phrase his next statement very carefully, "that you yourself have felt no … pull?"

"Yes. Of course I have." She clenched her firsts. "I have heard that sniveling voice every day since those ziggurats appeared. But I shall not give quarter to the one I am sworn to destroy, and no true Forsaken would either. If any of you understood that, we would not be having this conversation."

"What would we be doin', den?" said Vol'jin, unable to restrain his contempt.

"Dealing with this," said Sylvanas. "Exterminating them."

She rose from the table. "I will return to my city. I will tell my people to guard their minds—but that if they should slip, there will be no mercy. I advise you to do the same for those Forsaken within your own lands."

She turned and left. Thrall frowned at the cracked stone and said, "That was a bit less productive than I had hoped."

"I do not want to beget violence with more violence," said Cairne quietly. "But I have already lost good people, my people, to this disaster. Two right at my feet. I cannot allow more innocent blood to spill, if it is within my power to stop it."

"I understand," Thrall said. "We have all suffered losses. We want to support our allies—"

"But not at the cost of our peoples' lives!" Vol'jin said. "Ya know I trust ya, Thrall. Trust ya wit' my own skin. But I got ta agree with da Banshee. We cannot help dem."

"If I recall correctly," said Thrall, "you never thought the Forsaken could be helped at all."

"No, I didn't," Vol'jin agreed. "An' dis ain't hurtin' my opinion."

"I spoke with Hamuul Runetotem before coming here today," Cairne said. "He said to me that the Forsaken in the Pools of Vision were making breakthroughs towards a cure. They left a journal of their findings."

"Oh?" said Thrall. "Do you have it?"

"No," said Cairne. "He gave it to a night elf druid. She has taken it to Moonglade. She claimed to know an uncorrupted Forsaken, who will read it for her."

"I see," Thrall said.

"I do not feel that this was unwise," said Cairne, eyes on Sylvanas's empty seat. "Given what we sometimes suspect."

"Did this night elf mention any names as regards who she was meeting?" Thrall asked.

"No."

"Seems a bit outta place. A night elf an' a Forsaken."

"Indeed," said Thrall. "Have you heard any more from your mage?"

"Not lately," said Vol'jin. "He be makin' his way to Moonglade."

"Then I suppose we must hold our collective breath for a while," said Thrall. "I have temporarily detained all of the Forsaken in Orgrimmar. I pray to the spirits that I can restore their liberty soon, and without bloodshed."

---

The last time Cian had shut his eyes, he had awoken in a fallow field in Silverpine, with soil and grass spilling out of his mouth, with his fingers rust-red with blood, his armor torn, his hair caked with shards of bone and bits of flesh. Beside him were several corpses, each rent to pieces. Some of their limbs were scattered across the field. Beneath the dirt on his tongue, he tasted the salt of these men.

He choked and spat, clawing at his own throat, as his physical memory replayed what he had done, what he thought he had dreamed.

Since then, Cian had been careful never to let his eyes close for too long. Sleep meant to relinquish his will, and to unfetter his mind, such that the memories which were dammed in his waking life flooded freely into his conscious.

And his body was animated by those memories, driven to repeat the grisly crimes. Therefore, he cast off the human habit of sleep, of resting the eyes, which was not too difficult, as he neither grew tired nor did he properly have eyes.

But the curse had sapped his defenses to the point where he was simply depleted of strength. He had not known exhaustion of this kind could still exist for him, and he had no stores of resistance upon which to draw.

Cian lost awareness of his situation. The dark cave turned completely black, the sensation of Eulalia's silk shirt dulled, and the voices of the women softened to whispers, then silence.

Yet though his mind receded, his body remained active, controlled by primal rather than rational commands. He grasped a faint notion of violence: the warmth of blood, the snicker-snack of breaking bone, the wet glurch of shredded skin. He tasted bitterness, and the old familiar salt, the oil and the bile, of a violated body.

After a time, he heard not a shout but a gentle murmur near his ear, of someone pronouncing his name over and over, as though it were a consecration.

Images returned sharply, in painfully bright focus. He was in a forest. The air was cool, and dewy with mist. The mist was tinged crimson. Eulalia knelt, her arms around his waist, her cheek pressed to the hollow of his throat, her lips whispering, "Cian, Cian, Cian."

Gashes marked her face, and her armor was gouged and glistening with green blood. The dead surrounded them: tauren, night elves, both prostrate on the leaves, their final expressions fearfully defiant.

Beside them, Ingomar and Linnaris. Injured. Grim. Ingomar stared at him as through trying to cut his soul.

Not that she thought he still had one.

Cian shuddered, spat out blood. He dripped with the blood, like it was sweat. It poured from every crevice, it saturated his skin, his armor. The blood stained his bones.

He looked at Eulalia, who was still holding him, not worried about the ichor smeared on her neck and lips as she continued to intone his name.

He pulled away from her violently, so that she nearly pitched forward.

"Welcome back," Linnaris said.

Ingomar said nothing.

"I … I'm sorry," he said, backing away.

"Cian—hold on—" Eulalia said, but he didn't look at her again, he didn't dare. He turned and ran into the forest, away from the corpses, away from their solemn faces, away from the overpowering _smell_. He stumbled deeper into the trees, overwhelmed with guilty panic. He should have left that Warsong Gulch. He should have never agreed to this ridiculous quest.

He had lost control.

Recalling the slashes across Eulalia's face, he stopped, and held up his clawed hands. The bones were too caked with bits of skin and dried blood, both red and green, to tell him anything coherent. Had he attacked her? And Ingomar, and Linnaris? Ingomar's unforgiving eyes, cold and pale like a frozen lake, bore into his memory. He saw contempt in them, hatred for his depravity, and a fury so cold it smoldered.

But worse than that were the unspoken words within that expression, the triumphant declaration: _I knew it_.

Sick with shame, exhausted, wounded, and stumbling, Cian ran until he reached the mouth of the Stormrage Barrow Den. His mind fuzzily processed the twisting network of caverns as a place to hide, rather than as a sacred labyrinth for sleeping druids. He limped inside, and after a few minutes he was crawling, with no particular direction, through the muddy tunnels. Perhaps, he thought, he'd be permitted to end his life here.

"Dat was some performance, mon."

Then again, perhaps not.

An'jin loomed over him, infuriatingly placid, smiling.

"I'll … kill you," Cian said, struggling to rise. He lurched forward, daggers out, shakily aiming for some part of An'jin's throat.

Icy shackles sprung up around his ankles, and he vanished, shattering them.

"Now, let's be keepin' our heads," An'jin said mildly.

"Shut up," said Cian. "You've been stalking me since that fight in the Gulch—why? What do you want?"

An'jin sat down in the dirt and uncorked a bottle of water. "I just find myself wit' an innerest in your affairs."

"You, or the Scourge scum you work for?"

An'jin choked on his water. "What?"

"Play dumb, then! Don't even have the courage to own your betrayal!" Snarling, Cian leapt from the shadows and jammed the hilt of a dagger into An'jin's neck. In the next breath, the mage disappeared and reappeared on the opposite end of the tunnel.

"Now you insultin' me," said An'jin. "And I don' like bein' insulted."

Cian marched towards him, slowed by the mage's invisible ice armor. An'jin flung out his palms and said, "Ya need ta relax, mon."

Suddenly, Cian felt very small, very fuzzy, and possessed of a deep desire to chew grass. He looked at An'jin with as much hate as his watery, button shaped eyes could muster.

"Now den, my little black sheep," An'jin said. "Let us chat."

Of course, by 'chat,' An'jin actually meant that Cian's sheep body would meander about stupidly for a few minutes while the troll spoke.

"I'd rather have ya carve out my entrails den work for da Scourage," An'jin said vehemently. "But ya be true ta a point—I be workin' for someone. Vol'jin, ta be precise." He paused, as though allowing Cian time for a response he couldn't give.

"I been followin' ya because of da nature of your quest," An'jin explained. "Not many Forsaken are innerested in anyting but furtherin' some dark plan of your Queen. Even less Forsaken pursue dese aims with a night elf."

The spell wore off, and Cian lay, breathing heavily, but no longer reaching for his knives.

"Oh, by da way," An'jin said. "Dat looks like a nasty curse, mon. Can't believe you're still kickin'." The mage waved his three-fingered hand and the wicked sigil on Cian's cheek faded, as though wiped away.

Instantly, his mind cleared. An'jin handed him a cinnamon roll. "Have a snack."

Cian bit into the roll and said, "You're still a stalker."

"My profession affords me much swift movin'," An'jin said. "Meanin', I can keep tabs on ya without shadowin' your every moment, as ya seem ta be imagining."

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Cian said. "It's all ruined now. We're finished … I'm finished."

"I wouldn' be so sure about dat."

"I can't go back. They wouldn't want me to, anyway. I lost it … I could lose it again. I, I could hurt her …"

"Hmm? Da elf?" An'jin said. "I tink ya ought ta worry more about what she can do ta you … Tho ya were pretty fierce out dere."

"So you saw it," Cian said. "Then there's no need for us to discuss this. Please just leave me alone."

"Yeah, I saw it all right," An'jin said. "Saw ya fightin' off a whole group of yer kin. Saw ya protectin' da woman ya came in with."

"What?" Cian said slowly. "No, that can't be … then why …"

"It was like your mind had gone," said An'jin. "Eyes glassy. Not wieldin' your daggers. No art, no strategy to ya movements. Ya fought like you was possessed—as though you was fightin' yourself and tha evil surrounding ya."

"Ah," said Cian. "Then, the injuries on Eulalia's face …"

"Not you, mon," said An'jin. "Fact is, ya threw da one clawin' at her right into a tree."

Cian's eyes narrowed. "Did you help."

An'jin blew on his nails. "In my way."

Cian shook his head. "I still lost control. I'm a danger to them. Especially to Eulalia."

"Your life, mon," An'jin said. "I just don't think it's gonna be dat easy."

"Regardless of who you answer to," said Cian, rolling over so that he was face-down in the dirt, "it's not your business."

An'jin conjured another stack of rolls and left them beside Cian. "Reckon not. You be takin' care, mon."

The low hum of arcane channeling filled Cian's ears. A moment later, the troll teleported to Light knew where. Cian exhaled. What should he do? Return to the Undercity. Ask Syvlanas how he could help. Or he could run, run as far south, as from the Lich King's gaze, as physically possible.

_Fool. My reach is infinite._

Oh, no. Not again.

Cian got up from the dirt, dragged himself outside, and made it as far as a small clearing. He rested on a slab of rock, exhaled, and tried to think only of his thin, tattered breath.

Shut it out, shut it out, shut. it. out.

"Oh, Cian. If I had known you were going to be so ungrateful, I never would have offered you my gift."

He turned to face the voice, a familiar one, ice-cold and poison-sugar sweet. The Lich King receded, presumably because his messenger had arrived.

She looked so different now. Her hair, remembered as limp and dusted with ash, was in tight, pale blonde curls. Her plump lips were the color of dead roses, her eyes dark, outlined in black, with heavy eyelashes. Her cheeks were powder-white and painted with sigils, her slender neck was engulfed by an imposing silk mantle, and her breasts strained against a long, patterned dress.

He shuddered, leaned back against the rock, and then she pushed him down, so that he was sprawled across the stone.

"What do you want from me," he said weakly.

"I'm waiting for you," said Nina. "I'm waiting for you to accept who you are."

"Oh, is that all." He couldn't move.

Gently, she cupped her palm against his cheek. Her fingernails were black, and filed to exacting points, sharper even than his bone claws.

"You are immortal now. You have power beyond imagining. Power that I gave you."

"This isn't immortality!" Cian said. "This is a travesty."

"I'm so sorry you feel that way." Her voice was light, kittenish. "I can see now that you're not ready. You need more time."

He struggled in earnest, but found himself bound by intangible fetters.

"Ooh, you're angry," said Nina. "That's good. That'll serve me well."

"Burn in hell," said Cian.

"I am," she assured him. "It's marvelous."

She drew her hand back and grinned. "I will give you another gift."

But before an incantation left her lips, an arrow whistled across her hand. A bloody line stood out starkly against her skin, which was lemon-juice pale. The arrow struck a tree, its feathers quivering.

Nina sneered. "Nice aim."

"That was a warning," Eulalia said, stepping into view. Her usually open face was drawn, as were her bow and arrows. "I suggest you go on to wherever your home is."

Nina's fingers twitched. "You're entirely too relaxed, sweetie. Go back to crouching in the bushes."

And, suddenly, not of her own volition, Eulalia ran. Her direction wasn't fixed, and her mouth was contorted, her eyes wide, as though she saw something too horrible to describe.

"Eulalia!" Cian cried.

"This is the one you told me about," Nina said. "Back then. Right?" She looked at her wound, which still bled freely. "I'll enjoy watching her die."

"No!"

But then, Eulalia stopped running, so abruptly that Nina was startled.

"No, indeed," said Nina. "That wasn't nearly long enough to satisfy."

Eulalia barreled back through the trees, flushed and sweating. "Miss. You should not have done that."

Nina yawned dramatically. "Your legs could use a bit more exercise, I think."

And, again, terror seized her, but this time for only the merest half-second. Once that half-second passed, something in Eulalia changed. She became not just flushed, but angry, scarlet red—all over her body, her clothes, even her white hair took on a red sheen. The white tiger bounded up next to her, and it too was red, and grown three times its original size. Eulalia, now nearly nine feet tall herself, spoke in a rattling, primal growl. "I asked you not to do that, miss."

Her attack was rapid, savage: a barrage of arrows, the giant cat hissing and tearing at Nina, who fought to cast a spell, to frighten them again, not realizing that in those moments Eulalia existed as a being of undiluted rage, and that every other feeling in her was shut out, leaving behind the most basic, violent instinct.

Cian felt the psychic bonds that held him weaken, and he leapt off the rock.

"Enough!" Nina shouted, and she stepped backwards, tearing open a portal behind her. She reached into a fold of the dress and took out a small, wrought-iron cage, in which a human heart was trapped, still beating slowly. "Call her off!"

"She's not my dog," Cian grumbled, and Nina glared at him in a way that suggested she begged to differ.

Eulalia's cat nipped at the arm holding the cage, and Cian said, "It's all right, Eulalia!"

Her expression unchanged, Eulalia motioned to the cat, which reluctantly abandoned its task and returned to sit, still enormous and red, near its mistress.

"I've kept this, Cian!" Nina cried shrilly, thrusting the cage in front of him, "Fortified it! And without it, you will never, ever regain what you've lost." She let loose a hacking laugh, and blood flecked her lips. "So if you want it … come and get it."

Then she crawled into the portal, which sealed itself after her.

Cian gripped his chest, his fingers sinking into the empty cavity on the left side.

Eulalia regained her usual color and shrank, then fell to her knees.

"Oh my," she breathed. "Too much, too much …" and she crumpled fully, prompting Cian to forget his shock.

But he realized, crouching beside her, that she had only fallen asleep. Gently, Cian touched the length of her ponytail. Her hair was damp and hot from the fight, but still soft, still thick enough to bury his fingers. Cian pulled himself up. He turned away. He could not remain and continue to endanger her.

But before he rounded any trees, Ingomar and Linnaris burst into the clearing.

"Stepping out after the lady falls asleep?" Linnaris said slyly. "That isn't very becoming of a gentleman."

"Aye," coughed Ingomar, red-faced, panting, her hands clutching her knees. "What she said."

"Catch your breath_before_ talking, Ing," said Linnaris.

"Oi, whatever," Ingomar said. "We cannae all be zoomin' from point A tae point B whenever the fancy strikes us."

"Well, provided about five minutes pass between any given fancy," Linnaris said, with a shrug.

Cian shook his head. "I'm no gentleman. Take care of her."

"Reckon she'll be nigh inconsolable when she wakes up tae find ye've abandoned her," Ingomar said.

"I'm not abandoning anyone," Cian said. "I'm doing her—all of you—a favor."

"Oh, Uther," said Ingomar. "Spare me."

"Really," said Linnaris. "You think you're traveling with blind, double-amputee toddlers who have no recourse against the fury that is you. Granted you were impressive back there, but your form was_ severely_lacking."

"Why do you care? Neither of you even like me."

"Hang on there," said Linnaris. "I don't know you. Although this crying zombie act isn't winning any points."

Cian looked at Ingomar, who said, "Can't argue with ye on my account, laddie. But if I let ye walk off, Euls will jus' go runnin' after ye, see? And as you just witnessed, I ain't so fond 'o runnin'."

Yawning, Eulalia raised her head. "Don't go … I went through all that trouble …"

"Did you see what she had?" Cian said quietly.

Eulalia yawned again, and rolled over onto her back. She stretched her arms to the sky, her back arched above her bed of leaves. "You mean the cage?"

"My heart," said Cian. "She kept it."

"Romantic," said Ingomar.

"And she said …" Cian paused. "She said a lot of things. But I have to go after her. I've got to get it back."

"Is this a Tinhead thing?" Ingomar said. "Although you look more like a strawman …"

Cian scowled. "The point is, as lovely as this futile quest has been, I've got something better to do."

"Now listen here, laddie—" Ingomar began, but Eulalia interrupted.

From her position on the forest floor, her luminous eyes focused on the purpling sky, she said, "I do not know what you think you have to do. But I know that I have a made choice, and once I make choices it is odd that I unchoose them. Because I want to do this. I feel that it is right. So now you are making a choice, and I am asking if you are doing this because you think it is right, or because you are scared, or ashamed? D'you think I would not help in this also? D'you think I was lying?" Her voice faltered. "D'you really think so much of nothing about me?"

"Me!" Cian said. "The way you looked at me … the way you all looked at me!"

"We were a little shocked," said Linnaris.

"Ye started spasmin' in Eulie's arms," Ingomar said. "An' then we were overrun by a mass 'o mindless Forsaken, and ye …"

"Flipped out," said Linnaris. "Completely. I mean, for the sake of defending us, but still."

"It wasn't you," said Eulalia. "It was someone else."

"And that's exactly what I mean," said Cian. "Nina orchestrated that. She could again. And next time, I might turn on you."

"Like we said. Three versus one," Ingomar said. "I'm nae worried."

"Speaking of fighting, this is a great heart to heart and all—pardon the phrase—but Moonglade is still under siege," Linnaris said. "If you'll observe the mist."

The dewy mist which permeated Moonglade's cool forest had nearly darkened to black. When any of them spoke, they tasted the coppery hint of blood.

The women called for their mounts, and waited expectantly for Cian.

"Wait a minute …" Cian said.

"Shut it for noo," said Ingomar. "We can mope this out later!"

"I—"

"Save the Cenarion Circle first. Soul-search afterwards. Come on," Linnaris said.

"But—"

"If Kiero is hurt," said Eulalia, "I will cry."

Cian called for his horse.


	9. The Wicker Man: Hallow's End

Hallow's End: The Wicker Man

"Please," Cian said. "Please, can we not do this?"

"You dinnae hafta do anythin'," Ingomar said. "We, on t'other hand, have a job tae do."

"Don't worry so much!" Eulalia said. "It'll be fun! It's a festival, right? People dancing, eating pumpkins and whatnot. Everyone is happy when they're dancing!"

"People have their guards down during festivals," Linnaris mumbled. "Give me your poor, your huddled gold coins, yearning to breathe free!"

"I believe you have misapprehended the situation," Cian said.

"Laddie, we're jes' gonna scout around a bit an' then report back," Ingomar said. "If ye want tae go have some tea an' scones while we handle this, I won' judge ye." She paused. "At least, not to yer face."

Cian set his teeth. "Can't I just _tell _you what happens?"

"We 'ave specific instructions tae observe these Forsaken shenanigans up close," Ingomar said. "Nothin'doing."

"Oh, is that what Hallow Ending is all about? I wonder why we do stuff for it?" said Eulalia.

"The same reason! Our freedom from the Lich King is the whole basis for Hallow's End," Cian said.

"Now I know I'm not up on my learnings," Eulalia said. "But aren't we non-friends with the dead folks?"

Ingomar bit into a pumpkin-shaped candy and her body swelled, turning orange in the process. "Yup."

"So why are we getting fancy about their happy time?"

"Candy," Ingomar said. "Lots and lots 'o candy."

"Let's get moving, people," Linnaris said, from atop the saddle of her nightsaber. "My thievin' fingers are itching."

"I just want to offer a pre-emptive I told you so," Cian said, as they set out for Silverpine Forest.

"My reply counts for noo an' later," said Ingomar. "Shut yer yap."

---

The season of red, gold, and green was upon them. Jacob Miller smiled as the leaves fell gently from the trees in the orchard, creating a thin blanket on the grass. Soon he would rake them into piles. His children would jump in the leaves, throw them in fistfuls, and then the leaves would burn in a great bonfire, which would fill the crisp air with warm, crackling scents. Apple-picking time was upon them, too. Jacob liked to get the job done early, before too many of the trees' fruits were filched by Southshore's enemies.

His eldest daughter stood on top of a short ladder, on tiptoes, reaching for a fat apple hanging from the end of a branch.

"Mind yourself, girl," he said, steadying the wobbly ladder.

"Don't be worryin' about me!" she laughed, jumping from the ladder and grabbing the apple as she fell. She landed on her knees in the leaves, the apple clutched in her hand. Grinning at her father, she tossed her prize into an already overflowing bucket.

Jacob pulled himself out from the under the ladder, which had crashed into him after his daughter's leap. Frowning, he said, "All right, Sarah, I think you've finished up for today. Why don't you go on and get a start on dinner? I'll take them apples down to the inn."

He fussed over her before he let her go, making sure that she hadn't twisted anything important or skinned herself too badly. Sarah complained, pushing her father away.

"Daddy, I'm fine," she said. "It was a little jump. I ain't gonna die from reachin' for apples."

"I know it," he grumbled, seizing the bucket of apples. "Just gotta be sure is all."

Sarah dusted off the skirt of her dress and kissed her father on the forehead. "I'll see you in a minute, Daddy."

He watched her slight form shrink away from him. He called after her, "Round up your sisters, now!"

She waved at him, and then ran out of sight.

Jacob carried the bucket into Southshore proper, nodding to the various townspeople as he went.

"Nice looking harvest, Jake," said Mary Rogers. "Mind if I borrow a few for some pies?"

"Naw," he said. "Go on."

The woman swept an apronful of apples off the bucket's top. "I'll bring you one, honey."

"Thanks very much," said Jacob. He was sweating from the bucket's weight. Dusk was near, and he wanted to get back to his daughters. "I'll be seein' you, Mary."

She smiled at him, too widely, insincere, and moved on.

The inn reeked of rotten eggs. Jacob coughed and almost dropped the apples.

"Light-damned Forsaken," growled the innkeeper. "That's the third time today!"

"Hey there," Jacob said, his eyes watering, his fingers bright red and aching. With restrained desperation, he said, "Where can I put these?"

"Oh, right here behind the counter, Jake," the innkeeper said. "Preciate it."

"All my daughter's work," he said proudly.

"Sarah? Good strong girl," the innkeeper said. "You're lucky to have her."

"Sure am," Jacob said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Be careful," said the innkeeper. "Lots of them Forsaken hanging about lately. Don't know why we even cotton to their wretched holiday."

"My girls like the treats part of it," Jacob said. "But will do." He left in a hurry, and not just on account of the smell, or the darkness.

But it was dark. The sweat on his neck and chest cooled quickly after he stepped out, and Jacob shivered. He thought of his girls, alone in their house on the edge of Southshore, and of the Forsaken, emboldened by their perverse celebrations. He abandoned the patrolled main street, planning to jog a faster route through the fields.

He was halfway home when he heard it. Something—a group of somethings, more like—tearing up the corn. A snicker-snack of chopping blades, the crunch of crisp stalks under heavy feet. Thieves.

Jacob didn't have time for this. He had to get home, lock his doors, secure his windows, tuck his girls into bed—Ana, the youngest, wouldn't sleep without a story first.

Still, these were the town's communal crops. Everyone was fed by their harvest, everyone contributed to their growth. Jacob had no weapons on him. He'd sprint back to town and alert the guards. They'd handle this.

Regretfully, he turned around.

"Hello," said the man behind him, his yellow eyes glowing fiercely in the dark. "Won't you join us for our festival?"

Forsaken surrounded him, leering with their jack-o-lantern faces.

"I, I don't want no harm," Jacob said feebly.

"But we do," a woman rasped, and she struck him sharply in the back of the head.

Before falling unconscious, Jacob thought of his daughters.

---

Most of the Dalaran wizards in Silverpine were dead. Cian didn't think much of this when they passed the human camps on the road to the Undercity; more would come. In his early days of undeath, when he was still struggling to remember his abilities, he had even 'practiced' on some of these humans. He wasn't proud of it, but he maintained that the wizards had struck first, lobbing fireballs at his back while he liberated the contents of a treasure chest. As his gray skin melted against his bones, he had thought, "Well, if that's how it's gonna be."

"Poor mages," Ingomar said, as their mounts clopped by the destroyed camps.

"Maybe if they'd stick to rebuilding their precious city instead of assaulting innocent, harmless Forsaken," said Cian.

Ingomar laughed. "Laddie, there don' be a soul among ye what's innocent an' harmless."

Cian shrugged. "Just saying. They should mind their own business. Like some other folks I know."

"You got to calm it down," said Eulalia. "We'll just come at'em with our arms open, so they know we are friendly, and offering hugs!"

"You can do that," Linnaris said. "I think I'll hang back."

"Aye," said Ingomar. "S not like we're plannin' to ride into th' middle of a crowd, Cian. We're jus' gonna survey the area."

"Maybe kill a few guards," Linnaris said. "If they get too close. Or appear to have money."

"Abominations guard the festival," Cian grunted. "You'd have to reach into their bellies for any coin."

"I'm not opposed to that," Linnaris said cheerfully.

They traveled along the road without much further event, until Cian spotted a party of Forsaken marching out of the Sepulcher.

"Stop," he said, rounding his horse so that it blocked his companions' progress. "We need to let that group gain some distance on us."

"The hell we do," Ingomar said. She brought her ram nose to nose with Cian's horse, and the two animals glared at each other menacingly.

"I won't ask you to do this for me," said Cian. "But it would certainly make this trip harder if you exposed me as an actual traitor."

Ingomar and her ram stood down, begrudgingly. They waited on the road for about ten minutes before continuing on into Tirisfal.

Groans and howls echoed throughout the shadowed pines. Farms once thrived in these lands, but now the fields were in shambles, the barns haunted, the houses crumbling. Ghouls wandered the dead acres, their gaping maws in search of flesh to consume, while the children of Arugal loped and skulked in the ever present dark, their black claws hungrily tearing at the soil. Stale, fungal smells rose from the barren earth, and the dead grass reeked of an aged decay. The forest was wholly infected, as much a corpse as any of its residents.

Cian felt thoroughly at home. Or he would have, were he not so anxious about his friends' current enterprise. He urged his horse away from the group as the walls of Lordaeron came into view. A small group of Forsaken—the same party from earlier—had gathered in front of a giant straw effigy of a human. Several abomination guards flanked the undead, idly swinging their chains and axes, brimming with dull-witted menace.

"I'm heading into Brill," said Cian. "You've got fifteen minutes."

"We've got as long as we need," Ingomar said. "Go on and get ye a pastie, we'll find ye."

"Maybe I ought to stay …"

"Go! We're professionals!" Linnaris said. She grinned at him. "Or at least I am."

"Fine, fine," said Cian. "Try not to cause too much of a disturbance."

Linnaris caught Eulalia by the back of her tabard, as the hunter was already inching dangerously close to an abomination, muttering something about taming it for a pet. "Right."

---

The inn was packed with the lively dead that night. Emily Thrash observed the posturing and conversation from the kitchen, where she was baking an apple pie. Most of the faces were local, people she saw every day, coming in for their evening drink. Some were the newly wakened, struggling to remember their old skills—or learn new ones. But, just as many were unrecognizable, seasoned by greater battles than those offered in Brill. In particular, Emily noticed a rogue, who came in and sat near the entrance, deliberately removed from the celebrations going on in the middle of the inn. This in and of itself was interesting—the Forsaken all participated in Hallow's End with great zeal—but when a patron shouted drunkenly to her, the rogue looked up, and his yellow eyes glowered at her with infuriating disdain.

"Thrash!" the patron, a young mage, shouted. "Got a prisoner in the basement who's looking a bit peckish, if you ask me!"

She smiled, and purred convincingly. "I got just the treat for his like."

"Thrash's cooking is brilliant!" the mage yelled, to anyone who listened. "The prisoners love it! That is, until they realize their organs are shriveling into prunes."

This elicited a few approving chuckles, and the contemptuous glare from the rogue in the corner.

Emily lifted the finished pie from the fire, undisturbed by the flames curling around her bones. She waited for the rogue's attention to shift back to the grains of wood in his table, and carried the pie down into the basement.

A human farmer was chained to a stack of moldy barrels.

"Got you a present," she said, in a shrill, mocking tone, so that the undead above could hear her.

"You're killing me, you witch!" the farmer shouted, and struggled against his chains. Cruel laughter filtered down the basement steps. "I won't eat any more."

"Oh, but you will," said Emily. "You'll eat as much as you can take!"

She knelt down beside him and whispered, "Good work. They'll never suspect."

The farmer smiled. "Thank you kindly, ma'am."

She fed him bits of pie gently, and the man's eyes closed in bliss as the warm, flaky sweetness filled his throat. She baked with good ingredients: fruit and flour stolen from the humans, butter she churned herself, just enough sugar, everything fresh and pure. It was true that the prisoners loved her cooking, for as long as they were alive to enjoy it.

At first, the captives reacted as expected—repulsed by her pale green skin, the exposed bones on her cheeks where the skin had rotted out, the black spots of decay ringing the empty hollows of her eyes. The farmers and mountaineers brought in by the deathstalkers were considered little more than experiment fodder by Brill and the Undercity at large, and they were well aware of this. They expected her food to poison and kill them, or to alter them irrevocably in some cruelly inventive fashion. But she didn't put anything worse in her food than a little too much butter, now and then.

The basement steps creaked under the weight of someone's boots.

"Choke," Emily hissed to the farmer, and she shoved a chunk of sticky, crumbly pie down his throat, with such panicked violence that her nails nicked his cheek. They both cringed, and the man wrenched against his manacles, spitting and shouting abuse as he eagerly swallowed the greater portion of his force-feeding.

The rogue stared at this scene, his expression inscrutable—he had pulled up his leather mask.

"What are you doing to him?" he asked.

"She's torturing me! Torturing me terribly!" the farmer cried. "Please, no more, you monster!" But, out of the rogue's view, the farmer's hands grabbed at Emily's pan. She sighed and pushed another handful of pie past the farmer's lips.

To the rogue, she growled, "What's it to you?"

"Nothing," he replied. "But this human has another visitor."

A neophyte warrior appeared at the top of the steps, clutching a pumpkin, his posture taut and excited.

"Mmm, pumpkin," the farmer murmured, but Emily froze.

Hastily, she said, "I—I'm not finished with him yet! Come back later!"

"No," the warrior said. "This won't take long, and I ain't carryin' this thing around longer than I got to."

He held out the pumpkin to the farmer. "Here ya go, mate."

Unthinkingly, the farmer leaned down and took a generous bite from the pumpkin.

The rogue watched impassively as the farmer doubled over, moaning,"Oh … I don't … feel right …"

Emily's pan clattered to the floor, as her hands flew to her mouth. The farmer's body degenerated rapidly, and he became a ghoul, clawing at his own head in pain and terror, gargling, "My mind … my body …!"

His torso severed itself from his legs, and he collapsed on the ground, in a heap of shining muscle and bone.

"Did your work a right bit faster, dinnit I?" the warrior said cheerfully. "Have a lovely Hallow's End, mates."

The rogue watched Emily, who shook visibly for several minutes after the warrior left.

"It never gets any easier," she mumbled.

Before the rogue could question her, excited shouts from upstairs interrupted them.

A well-dressed mage had jumped onto a long table, knocking over candles and plates, shouting, "We've got a treat tonight, lads! A special surprise for our Wicker Man burning! Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we have procured a live specimen!"

Chatter broke out after the mage stepped down. Emily ran back down to the basement, to hide the horror evident on her face. The rogue followed her, sitting down in the middle of the steps, peering at her through the bars on the banister.

"You got no right to judge me," Emily said. "I do what I can for those boys."

"I haven't said anything."

"No, but sure as hell you're thinking it."

He didn't reply, and in the silence that followed, Emily thought of something.

"You ain't gonna rat me out, are you?"

The rogue blinked at her.

Emily went on, nervously, "If them up there knew how I carried on down here, they'd toss me out quicker than I could spit. And then where would I go?"

"No … I won't tell anyone. I don't care."

"Don't care 'bout what?" a thick, throaty voice interjected, and Emily looked beyond the rogue to see a warlock clamping her gloved hands down on the rogue's shoulders.

Unperturbed, he said, "Hello, Kesriana."

"Salutations, Mr. McCulloch! Who is this lovely lady?" Kesriana pronounced the word 'lovely' in such a way that Emily knew she meant the opposite. The warlock had bone-white skin that was relatively free of blemishes, wide golden eyes, and dark hair spilling over her silk mantle. Her lips were small and full, blackened with rot but free of lesions, no maggots poking out at all. Emily surmised that she must have been quite beautiful in life, given her well-kept corpse.

Emily hooked a finger round the protruding bone in her cheek. She hadn't died with such blessings.

"A baker," McCulloch said.

"You have an interesting record with that type."

McCulloch grunted.

"Anyway, I saw you skulk in here and I wanted to ask if you'd accompany me to the festival. I'm sure you just heard about the new entertainment."

"I don't think so."

Kesriana pouted, and raked a claw across the front of McCulloch's face mask. "Sad to see that you're still no fun whatsoever."

He shrugged, and stood up.

"Hang on," Emily said. "I, I wanna go."

"Go on then," McCulloch said. "Sneak whoever they've caught some pie. I'm sure he'll enjoy it while he burns to death."

Anger rose like bile in Emily's throat. "You shouldn't run your mouth about situations you don't understand."

"What are you two yammering on about?" Kesriana yawned. "Come on, they're about to light the fires!"

"I said I won't—" McCulloch began, but Kesriana seized his arm and dragged him away. He grumbled weakly, but didn't attempt to escape as Kesriana pulled him out of the room.

Emily followed, trembling, leaving behind the remains of the farmer and her pie.

---

"Uther ha' mercy, this is nae good," Ingomar breathed.

"I know," Eulalia said fretfully. "Almost nobody is jiggling with their feet! I thought this was a party."

"Look at it a bit more carefully, lass."

Eulalia bit her lip. The crowd of zombie folks had thickened lots since their getting there, but they all stood still, like they were maybe listening for birds or thinking very hard about putting together a sentence (these were Eulalia's primary reasons for a quiet mouth, after all). Their bodies were still and faced forward, and their little eye holes seemed focus on the fake man statute in front of them. Their chests heaved, so they were all live, or dead, or whatever. The patchwork flesh men weren't moving much either, just garbling like sick tallstriders and hacking meanly at the grass. At the front of everyone, a female undead spoke, but she was too far for Eulalia to hear. She edged closer, turning over more details: grubs writhing in the soil, the growl of lieful dogs (pretending puppy face when they were really demons!). Scents of dried blood, bonfires built on damp wood, metal and bone.

Another step forward. Ingomar frowned at her expectantly.

"Stop focusin' on tha little bits and look at what's right in front 'o ye," she said.

Eulalia looked up from the ground and back at the undead assembly. They were surrounding something. A cage. With a human inside.

"Oh, oh," Eulalia said. "I thought I sensed a human nearby, but that didn't make sense, cos everything here's dead, cept you'n'me'n'Linn'n'maybe the moss on that tree behind us, and so—"

"Point taken," Ingomar said.

Linnaris, who had been sneaking up close, crept back to them then, her purses considerably fatter than before.

"Looks like we have a situation, ladies," she said. She began to describe the important lady's words, but Eulalia wasn't listening. She stared intently at the Forsaken gathering, which was talking and laughing with their human cage-friend. She thought they were being very friendly, but the man was huddled in a corner of his cage, like the rabbits Eulalia sometimes caught for eating.

The important lady lifted a lit torch high into the air. The Forsaken cheered.

Uh oh.

"He's a rabbit!" Eulalia said, in a hushed, revelatory whisper.

Linnaris and Ingomar, who had been discussing strategy, said, "What?"

"They're going to eat him!" she said. "Although, certainly, there's not enough of him for everyone …"

"I don't think they're planning to eat him," said Linnaris grimly. "But cooking can't be too far off."

"We've got to stop it! We've got to stop it right now!" Eulalia cried. "And, and we gotta tell Cian …"

"No, lass," Ingomar said. "He was right about what he said earlier. We cannae involve him direct, else he'll be branded a traitor. And I'm loathe tae be accountable for tha.'"

"What kind of country makes you a traitor for helping people?" Eulalia said.

"Er, the kind that's at war with the person you want to help?" Linnaris said.

Eulalia shook her head.

"Anyway, lass, did ye happen tae catch our plan?"

"No," Eulalia mumbled. "I was busy thinking about rabbits."

"All righ', I'll explain it again …"

---

At the tavern, before going down into the basement after the baker, a priest had sat down across from him and said, "You have woman trouble."

"Women," he'd corrected automatically, and then said, "How the hell do you know?"

"I'd feed you a line about how priests are trained in such things," she replied, "but really, I just recognize the expression. My husband used to look like that when he was alive, just after a fight. Still does, actually. Except that now I can actually see the muscles when he's frowning." She chortled.

"I'm not exactly fighting," said Cian. "Though maybe I should be."

"You're pretty handsome, considering," said the priest. "I'm sure your girlfriend thinks she's lucky." She paused. "As long as she's not still alive or anything …"

Cian coughed, then muttered, "I don't have a girlfriend. Not that it's any of your business."

"What is she, then?"

"Do you pry into the life of every stranger you meet?"

"I do my best," the woman said, smiling. "Oh, by the way—fortitude."

A sudden rush of vigor shot up Cian's spine, as a holy symbol shimmer briefly above his head. "Thanks."

"No problem, handsome."

A warrior sat down beside the priest, clutching two mugs and a carafe of mead. He kissed his wife, ignoring Cian completely. Cian decided to get the hell out of there before they went any further, and at that point he had gone after the baker. He had pulled his mask up to just beneath his eyes, troubled that his expression revealed his worries so nakedly.

He was grateful for the mask's disguise when he and Kesriana (with the baker tiptoeing after them) arrived at the Wicker Man gathering. The farmer they'd captured was drenched in his own terrified sweat, and his pupils were dilated, as though he'd been drugged.

Cian forced his gaze away, onto Kes. "So … killed any prominent family members lately?"

"Just an uncle in Alterac," she said boredly.

Cian had met Kes shortly after waking. She had killed her fair share of Dalaran wizards, too. But mostly she was interested in her own bloodline, which had apparently been murderous even before the Plague. ("Some people say their family holidays are bloodbaths, but we take that phrase to its logical extreme," she had explained)

Something about inheritance and last cousin standing and so on.

"What about yourself?" she asked.

"Oh, you know," he said. "The usual."

"Nothing, then," she said. "Since you hate accomplishment."

"Listen," he said hotly, "if this is about that time we had to poison someone's dog …"

"Relax. I think your love of failure is very charming."

"Just because I have some human decency—"

Kesriana laughed. "Oh, honey. So precious. You wouldn't feed that cute puppy its poison, but you sure killed it after I did …"

"I can't be responsible for everyone's choices," he said stiffly.

Kesriana nodded to the cage. "I guess not."

"Emily," the farmer croaked suddenly, his shaking hands slippery against the bars of his cage, "Emily, help me!"

The baker behind them shook like a tuning fork, unable to approach the cage.

"Emily!" the farmer reached through the bars, towards the baker, and a nearby mage singed the prisoner's fingers. He flinched, and tears streamed down his cheeks. "Please, you got to help me. The girls—our girls—what're they gonna do without either of us … I, I bet Ana ain't even slept since I got taken here—please."

Emily Thrash choked on a sob. "I, I can't, Jake … I can't do nothin'."

"Shut it," one Forsaken said, to the farmer. "Don't be talking to her."

"She's my wife …"

"Not any more," said another one. "Now close your disgusting mouth!"

The crowd surged forward, knocking the cage over sideways.

Emily screamed and tried to push through to her husband, but the masses held her back. Cian caught her as she stumbled, her thin body racked with dry heaving.

"It's all right," he said. "Calm down."

"They're gonna kill him!" she shrieked, twisting clumps of his leather vest in her hands. "My husband!"

"Them's the breaks, sweetheart," Kesriana said.

Cian sighed.

"What? I killed my husband ages ago. It really wasn't a big deal."

The Forsaken had hoisted up the cage and were carrying it to a hollow carved out of the wicker man's chest. Several other undead stood by, their torches ready.

"What can I do?" Emily moaned. "Save him, please, I can't—"

"Oi, uglies!" A rich, booming voice broke over the throng. Everyone turned to see a dwarf paladin astride an armored, shining charger, grinning wildly. "Why don' ye slackjawed daffodils come get some 'o this!" The paladin stood up on her saddle and bent over, wiggling her rear at the undead.

Instantly enraged, the mob swarmed after her, and she clucked at her horse, which took off towards the forest.

"Who is that?" Kes said. "How tacky."

"The cavalry," Cian muttered, eyes darting around in search of Linn and Eulalia.

"Hey, what are those two doing?" Kes said, pointing to the farmer's cage. Sure enough, two familiar night elves were opening it. Kesriana marched over to them, incantations forming on her lips.

"Oww," Eulalia said, as her throat and arms began to bleed from Kes's curse. "Why do you hafta be like that?"

Linnaris helped the farmer out of the cage.

"C'mon guy, hop on," she said, and the man crawled onto Linnaris's back. "Let's move, Euls."

"Just where do you think you're going?" Kesriana said.

"Out!" Linnaris said. She winked at Cian. "Catch you later."

"Oh, I do not think so," Kes said, but before she could cast another spell, Cian grabbed her wrist and drew her away. "Cian! What're you …"

Eulalia lingered, and Cian said, "I'll catch up, Eulie."

She nodded, and dashed off after a sprinting Linnaris.

"You dirty traitor!" Kes cried.

"Yup," Cian said heavily, calling for his mount. "Sorry."

He directed his horse to follow the undead crowd, all of whom had closed in on Ingomar.

"Bring it on!" Ingomar taunted them, leaping off of her horse. "I ain't scared 'o the likes of YOU!"

"Everyone!" Cian shouted over the din, "The prisoner's escaped. We've been duped!"

He locked eyes with Ingomar, who flashed her teeth at him. A divine shield burst into form around her, and green light swirled around her fists. She was clutching her hearthstone.

"Later, suckers!" she laughed, disappearing right as the shield's protection failed.

Not wanting to know what the incensed mob would do next, Cian escape as soon as he was able (when he left, a number of Forsaken were viciously attacking the giant effigy). He headed for the border between Silverpine and Tirisfal, where Eulalia and Linnaris waited, with the farmer in tow. Unfortunately, Kesriana and Emily followed him.

"These are your friends?" Kes said. "So you knew what was going to happen?"

"I didn't, actually," said Cian. "They didn't tell me anything."

"For your own good," said Linnaris. "We didn't want to expose you." She glanced at Kes. "Looks like you did a bang-up job of that one on your own."

"I didn't know what you were thinking," Cian said. To Kes, he added, "Guess you think I'm really a failure now, eh?"

She shrugged. "Actually, I don't care. I'm just upset you never told me!"

"U-um," said Emily. "Thank you …" She bowed low before Eulalia and Linnaris. "For savin' Jake …"

The farmer slid off of Linn's nightsaber and limped over to Emily. "Hi there, Em."

She turned away. "Don't be lookin' at me, Jake, you know I hate all this. Just get on home, fast as you can."

He leaned over, his body quaking, though with exhaustion or revulsion, Cian couldn't tell. Jake kissed the top of his wife's hair lightly, and murmured something in her ear. Then, he limped back to the nightsaber and climbed up.

"We'd better go," Eulalia said. "I can sense unhappy zombies coming close."

"Keep in touch, Cian," Kesriana said. "Let me know if you spot any of my cousins in Stormwind, so I can send them some vials of poison."

"I'll try."

"Let's get you back to Brill, honey," Kes said to Emily, who was staring fixedly at the road. "You can ride on the back of ol' Flamehoof."

They parted ways. On the ride to Southshore, Eulalia said, "What did you tell your wife?"

"Euls!" Linnaris said. "What have we said about respecting personal boundaries?"

"S'okay," Jake said. "I jus' told her I missed her. I spend every day missin' her."

None of them had much to say to that.

---

A few days after his ordeal, Jacob woke to find a fresh apple pie steaming on his windowsill. He fed the beguiling pastry to his daughters, who lavished praise upon their slices and begged for more.

While in town that afternoon, he thanked Mary Rogers for her gift.

"Hon, it wasn't me," she said. "I ain't hardly broke into them apples."

Jacob looked west, towards Tirisfal. "Oh."

Thanks to everyone who's left reviews for this little story :) It's nice to know when folks are reading.

I removed the 'end' tag since it seems to have people confused ... ! This story is far from over D: And this chapter was just a holiday interlude, even. Cian & crew have miles to go before they sleep.


	10. Memento Vita

OH SNAP I'M BACK

enjoy.

Memento Vita

The group sped towards Nighthaven, their vision obscured by the thick, red mist.

"Why here?" Linnaris said. "That's what I don't understand."

"There are many brains here," Eulalia reasoned. "Zombies like brains."

"If I had eyeballs, they'd be rolling," Cian said.

The din of fighting reached their ears, a cacophony of shouted spells and clanging weapons. Corpses clogged the path into town, and many of the lamps lay broken on the street, smashed into so many glittering bits. Cian's horse was unperturbed, but the giant cats rode by Eulalia and Linnaris bared their teeth and dug their claws into the wet earth. Ingomar's ram began to turn anxiously in circles, stomping its hooves.

"We're close enough," Ingomar said. "Best leave'em here."

Their animals dismissed, the four of them proceeded on foot, their steps light and wary. Cian and Linnaris took to the shadows before they hit the tide of fighting. The city of Nighthaven had transformed into a battlefield, a writhing mass of bodies all in conflict with each other. Towering above the violence was Remulos, threatened by a contingent of Forsaken who seemed interested mainly in freezing the demi-god's limbs. He threw them off with wide swipes of his gnarled, root-twined hand, knocking them onto the roofs of houses or lobbing them at Lake Elune'ara. The display was impressive, but the Forsaken had achieved their goal—Remulos was so preoccupied with his attackers that he couldn't help the druids fighting at his feet.

A short distance from the battle, Cian was attacked.

"Die, foul undead!" a druid in cat form hissed, as he raked his claws down Cian's back. Cian kicked the cat's underbelly, and it howled in pain, rolling around dramatically in the street, paws flailing.

"Damn you, interloper! I'll rip apart every last one of your kind!"

"Save the theatrics," Cian said. "I'm not your enemy." Under his breath, he said, "Though I'd like to be."

The cat shifted to the form of a male night elf, who glowered at Cian with deep mistrust.

"I won't let you ravage these fine women," he declared.

"Seriously," said Linnaris. "Are my giant, poison-slicked daggers invisible? Do I appear to have marshmallows for legs?"

"My lady, I'm concerned with your well-being—"

"I can handle my well-being!" she snapped. "And we're not worried about him, anyway! He's traveling with us."

"Oh," said the druid. "Then … it's you! You're the ones we're looking for! Come on!" He hollered into the mist. "Kieromaris!"

The druid became a cheetah, and raced off down the road. The others hurried after him, halting at the edge of the massive battle.

"Kieromaris!" the druid shouted again, and soon a woman emerged from the violent throng, throwing healing spells and calling down the moon as she went.

"Kiero!" Eulalia cried joyously, and then choked, having swallowed a mouthful of the bleeding mist.

"Praise Elune," Kiero said. "I've been squirming through these ranks trying to find you people."

"We been up near th' barrow dens," Ingomar said. "After this'un." She nodded to Cian, who stood well away from the group, in order to avoid another painful case of mistaken identity.

"Oh, well," Kieromaris said. "Good of you to join us!" She marched over to Cian and thrust a worn journal against his chest. "Take this and run."

"Run!" Ingomar said. "I'm no coward, lassie. We're here tae help!" To illustrate her point, she slammed her mace into the delicate torso of an undead who had shambled from the writhing mass, lurching uncertainly at Cian and the book.

"You can help by getting out of here," Kiero said. "That book is our only chance of resolving this mess, and you're the only semi-trustworthy person available to read it!"

A serious-looking druid staggered forward, bleeding heavily, green hair matted to his head, armor torn to shreds. "Kiero," he gasped. "We need you."

"Oh, Shadian!" Kiero said, pressing her palms to Shadian's cheeks. A warm, green glow engulfed him, causing many of his wounds to close.

"Lojac's in some trouble, also," Shadian said, pointing to where a giant bear had barreled into a group of undead and roared.

"Damn him," Kiero growled. "What's he trying to prove?!" To the others, she said, "Why are you still here? Go, before they all notice you!"

"But—" Eulalia said, obviously eager to start shooting.

"Now!" Kiero shouted, her eyes flaring.

Thus, against all will and reason, they ran.

--

Cian's memory was imperfect. He had come to in Deathknell with nothing but his name, but that was only temporary: after a month of undeath, he had recovered the majority of his experiences, both in life and unlife. But even a living memory was fragmented, muddled, painted over and patched by the brain. Cian's brain had endured so much that he worried he couldn't trust even the simplest recollections, which was the impetus for his initial kidnap of Eulalia. He had remembered her almost immediately, but not why they had left each other—or rather, as he came to conclude, why she had abandoned him. But a few days before that fateful Gulch match, Cian's memory had revealed a series of moments to him, clear enough to be crystallized in amber.

A few weeks before she departed, they were in Stranglethorn, carrying out a number of missions versus a group of rogue jungle fighters. Cian struggled with their objectives, which were quite simple: massacre the human camps. He crept up behind a medicine man and did not see the fevered, zealous taint that infected his target's eyes, his stolid grimace, or the grass at his feet, stained ochre from those he had killed. Cian saw only a thin man in a tattered robe, a balding man, a small man.

Cian raised his daggers, but was too slow to bring them down, and the medicine man sensed him. He called to his brothers, and soon four men were attacking Cian, bashing his head in with their shields, tearing into his flimsy armor, dazing him with an onslaught of blows. But the beating ended almost as soon as it had begun, and when Cian opened his eyes and dropped his hands, he was surrounded by corpses stuck with arrows. Eulalia stood some distance away, her expression inscrutable.

After three days of this, she suggested they take a break. She brought him to the raptor grounds, pointed out their nests and their giant, speckled eggs.

"The raptor egg omelet is surprisingly tasty," Eulalia said. "Not that I know how to cook it."

"Uh, I do," Cian said. He hadn't confronted any raptors in his short lifetime (he was barely eighteen then), but he remembered helping with the cooking in the Stormwind chapel. He watched his mother prepare food for not only her own family, but countless others. She taught him how to roast a boar, spice an egg, fry buzzard meat. Nervously, he asked her (as he mixed a bowl of flour and shiny yolks, wearing a ruffled apron, seven years old with hair so thick he could hardly see the spoon) if this was a good thing to learn, because none of the other boys knew much about cooking. His mother had told him that preparing food was about survival—necessary to live—but that it was also about caring for the people around you. Something that she felt was similarly necessary to live.

Eulalia asked Cian to stay hidden in the trees. She raised her bow, aimed carefully, and struck down a lone raptor with two shots. He waited while she collected the meat. She grabbed an egg from the nest the raptor was guarding, and they went back to their camp.

Eulalia spread the meat onto the grass before them, and then lifted the egg over a rock to smash it open. Cian realized that she meant to consume her spoils raw, and he snatched the egg from her.

"Let me fix it," he said. "It'll be good, I promise."

He built a fire and borrowed seasonings from a man in the rebels' camp, the group who had hired them to kill the jungle fighters.

The meat he skewered with a fallen branch, which he then held over the fire, though not for long, as Eulalia said she wanted her dinner as rare as possible ("I like to feel'em struggle on the way down"). Next, he broke the huge egg into a special pan (also provided by the rebels, who ate raptor eggs frequently) and cooked it sunny side up, then poured the bubbling yolk on top of the seasoned meat. He sprinkled pepper, salt, and a soothing spice over the meal, then presented it to Eulalia with a flourish. The spice gave the food a warm, comforting aroma, mixed invitingly with the salty scent of just cooked meat.

She devoured it lustily, with her bare hands, and then shouted "AMAZING!" with such gusto that it disturbed the birds resting in the jungle canopy.

She lay down, smiled at him sleepily, and repeated, "You're amazing."

He blushed. "Thank you."

She murmured as her eyes closed, "Maybe I should learn to cook …"

"I can teach you," he said, but she was asleep.

Cian stoked the fire, came close to burning himself. He was distracted by the play of shadows across Eulalia's face, which looked soft and graceful in sleep. He stared for a minute, felt guilty, and looked away. He unrolled his mat.

But there was no help for it. Instead of lying down, he leaned over Eulalia, who slept like a child—lips parted, arms akimbo, legs stretched out. Cian was the opposite—upon waking, he was usually in the fetal position, his soft underbelly protected by the hard shell of his back. Eulalia slept like she had nothing to fear. Cian wasn't sure if this was bravery or arrogance.

He traced the outline of the tattoos across her eyes and down her cheeks, two maroon lightning bolts that contrasted sharply with her bright lavender skin. He touched her lips, leaned in close. Her breathing was regular, even, deep.

And then, Cian kissed her.

He was gentle and quick, and his body burned as he forced himself to stop, feeling wrong and ashamed. He crawled to the other side of the fire and hid under his blankets, every nerve singing, plucked like a harp. What had he done?

He feared she would wake, but Eulalia slept on, unperturbed. At length, Cian gave in to sleep, too.

In the morning, he would say nothing. Their expedition would proceed as normal.

His rest was fitful, and he woke long before dawn met the sky. In the early mist, a figure moved, swallowed quickly by twinkling, dewy fog. Cian glanced over at the smoldering campfire, and then the empty grass nearby.

"Eulalia?" he said groggily, rising. With strength and clarity, he shouted into the mist, "Eulalia!" He tried to run after her, but she was gone. She had left nothing behind but a lump of neatly packaged raptor meat.

Cian sat by the ruins of the fire and tried to figure out what he had done wrong. At the time, he concluded that it was because of the kiss, though now he wasn't sure. Eulalia hadn't mentioned it, but her explanation hadn't included many specifics.

For weeks, he searched for her, in Stormwind, Ironforge, and Darnassus, but she had evaporated. But for the pangs in his heart, it was like they had never met at all.

Those days seemed absurd now, after what he had been through. Death made all feelings absurd. But Cian's heart still beat, wherever it was.

--

They had escaped Moonglade, although none of them were too pleased about it.

"We should be back there," Ingomar said, frowning into the mouth of the Timbermaw Hold, shivering in the bitter wind of Winterspring. "Fightin'. Takin' names. An' so forth."

"I'm sure Kieromaris had good reason for sending us away," Linnaris said, but she followed Ingomar's gaze wistfully.

"She wanted you to protect me," Cian said. "For which I thank you."

"You are not really leaving, are you?" Eulalia said.

"I think it would be best," he said. Cian faced the vast, snowy expanse of Winterspring, clutching the book Kiero had shoved into his hands. He couldn't stay. He couldn't put them in danger anymore. Even now, a dark voice prickled at the edges of his consciousness, like something buried under ice, something scratching its way free. He shook his head.

"I won't let you," Eulalia said. She seized him by the shoulders, and he forced his muscles to relax, resisting the impulse to unsheathe his daggers. His claws dug holes into the leather scabbards.

"What happened to the choose your own path attitude?" Cian said.

"I changed my mind!"

He shrugged her off. "Well I haven't."

Stricken, Eulalia withdrew. "Have I really done a wrong thing?"

"You know, that's what I kept asking myself when you left," he said. "Maybe I'll just leave you wondering."

"But I said …"

He raised his hand, waved. "Goodbye." A handful of flash powder later and he was gone.

"Bollocks," Ingomar said.

Eulalia sent up a flare immediately, but Cian evaded its radius. He sprinted across the snow, confident in his invisibility.

Unfortunately, he forgot about the footprints.

Eulalia dashed after him, grinning maniacally. In the distance, Cian saw the steam rising from the hot springs. If he could reach them, he could hide in the water, but Eulalia ran with unnatural speed, and his sprint was done.

Suddenly, she leapt and slammed into him, knocking him flat on his back. Her force broke his stealth, and he cried out in surprised pain.

"You're not going anywhere, Cian McCulloch," Eulalia said. She pressed her forehead to his, her breath hot on his skin. He was suddenly aware of her fierce, sharp teeth.

"You do not seem to understand this situation. We're here to protect you. Not the other way around."

"But—"

"I have made a promise. And I will track you to the edges, the nooks, the crannies, the heights and depths of this world—or any other—to keep it."

Stunned, Cian looked at Linnaris and Ingomar, who were nodding. They would pursue him too, he realized, if not for his sake, then Eulalia's. As cold as he was, Cian shivered.

"If I let you up," Eulalia said. "Will you run?"

"No," he said, and she rolled off of him. Then, she offered her hand and helped him up. "I'm not happy about this."

"If that were true," Linnaris said, "You'd be running."

"Let's head tae Everlook and have a look at tha' pretty journal ye've got," Ingomar said. "An' a pint, 'o course."

--

Once at the inn, they gathered around the long wooden table and Cian opened the book. Gutterspeak scratches covered page after page.

"Y'know, this language isn't that much different from Common," Cian said, skimming the copious notes.

"Right, but what does it say?" Ingomar asked. A goblin gave her an overflowing mug of beer, and she slurped it noisily, almost drowning out the guttural scratch of Cian's voice.

"The first part of it is mostly potions ingredients," he said. Jaw twitching, Cian flipped through another set of pages. Every inch of the tissue-thin paper was marked with notes in multiple styles of handwriting, and in many cases the letters were too close together or smudged to decipher. Irritation mounting, Cian shut the book.

"It's gibberish," he said. "And it would take a week to untangle."

"So take a week, laddie!" Ingomar said. "This is all we've got tae go on!"

"Please, Cian!" Eulalia said. "I know we can do this! Just focus your brain meats!"

"Such as they are," Linnaris said.

He looked at their imploring, expectant faces. Hours earlier, he had been determined to forget these people, to go lonely into the dark night. He hadn't forgotten about his heart, or the woman who held it captive. But Eulalia's breath still tingled on his skin.

"I still don't understand why this matters to you so much," Cian said. He nodded to Ing and Linn. "Especially you two."

"Don't you want to be cured?" Linnaris said.

"Of course. I just don't think it's going to be that easy. Or even possible."

"I know that," Eulalia said. She took a sip of her milk. "I wouldn't wanna do it if it were easy."

"Don' be worryin' about our reasons," Ingomar said. "Maybe ye should consider why ye quit strugglin' so fast."

Cian exhaled, the air whistling through his ragged lungs. "All right, one more go."

Reasoning that the later research would be near the end of the journal, he opened it from the back and read. The top of the page listed ingredients with required quantities noted, followed by a lengthy set of instructions.

"A recipe," he said. "For the Pharmakon Elixir."

"Funny word," Ingomar said.

"It's old Darnassian," Linnaris said.

"And?" Cian said. "What does it mean?"

"Poison," Linnaris said. "Or cure. Depends on the situation."

"Fantastic," Cian said.

"Well, what do the instructions say?"

"I don't know … a lot of boiling and mixing … keep your mixtures separated for twenty minutes before combining … serve chilled?"

"Certain types of plants are used in certain types of potions," Eulalia said, happy to draw on her single pool of expertise (aside from shooting arrows into spines). "What are some of the things the recipe wants?"

"Uh … living essence, deathrose, gromsblood, sungrass, essence of undeath, liferoot …" he studied the list, perplexed by the contradictory ingredients. "Wait, this one's unusual—it asks for a flask of water from the Golakka Hot Springs."

"Those are in Un'Goro," Linnaris said. "Soo it must be a good elixir! Un'Goro is the cradle of life, doncha know."

"Maybe you're right," Cian said.

"Okay! Let's brew it up!" Eulalia said.

"It'll take a while to gather all this," Cian said. "I'm not even sure what some of these things are."

"Guess you'll be getting' yer wish, then," Ingomar said. She unrolled a blank piece of parchment and set a quill across it. "We'll split up fer a while and go scroungin'."

"I'm good at stabbing things that have essences," Linnaris said.

"An' I can suss out anythin' mineral," Ingomar said.

"I pick flowers," Eulalia said.

Cian translated a section of ingredients for each of them (taking care to draw little pictures for Eulalia instead of words) and then tore the parchment into thirds. "I'll go to Un'Goro."

"Let's meet in Tanaris in three days," Linnaris said.

Eulalia stretched and flailed over the table, struggling to hug everyone at once. "I'll miss you!" She looked at Cian seriously. "Don't try to run away, okay? I got ways, mister! WAYS!"

"Don't worry," he mumbled. "Reckon I'm in this for the long haul."

Out there in the snow had been his last chance to walk away, and he had chosen to keep still, pinned under Eulalia's weight, enthralled by the moons shining in her eyes. He couldn't leave to spite her. Leaving would only spite himself.

Ingomar yawned. "I'm off tae bed. Don' ye be pressin' on 'til dawn, either. Lots tae do in the next coupla days, aye?"

"Right-o," Linnaris said. She stood up from the table. "Ing, shall I order you a nightcap?"

"Bring me three," Ingomar said. She left, and when the bartender brought Linn's drinks, the night elf followed her friend.

Eulalia chugged her flagon of milk. "Mmm! This'll give me the sweet sleeps."

"Euls," Cian said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, but my facts knowledge is kinda thin!"

"Not that kind of question," he said. He waited for her to put the flagon down before he spoke again, so that he could fix his eyes to hers. Eulalia swallowed the gulp of milk in her throat and stared back at him. Her long, bushy eyebrows rose, and the silvery glow of her eyes cast shadows on her cheeks. The woman lived on her own plane of existence, but she was nothing if not aware.

The space between them unfurled and twisted and Cian's next footfall felt treacherous, as though it would land him at the bottom of a canyon.

He went ahead anyway.

"That night before you left," he said. "I kissed you, while you were sleeping. Were you aware of that? Is that the real reason you disappeared?"

She didn't break the lock of their gazes. "I had a dream that night. You were lost in a thicket of nettles. I kept trying to hack through'em but I could never get to where you were. I tracked you by the trail of your blood as you tried to move forward."

"You're not answering me."

"I suddenly felt like I wasn't breathing," Eulalia went on. "For a tiger's blink, I woke up, and there you were."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have."

"That's not why I had to go," Eulalia said. "Do you remember the start of that day? When we were fighting the jungle men?"

"Yes, but …"

"Your body trembled. You had the heart rate of a hummingbird, you were sweating so much you almost dropped your dagger. You hesitated before every attack. You were suffering, and I couldn't stand it."

She shredded a napkin into strips, then tore the strips into confetti. Guilt and shame darkened her features.

"When I woke up, my lips felt warm," she said. "I liked it."

She arranged the napkin confetti into imaginary shapes. "But I could not stay, because I could not see you in that much pain any more."

"That's awfully presumptuous," Cian said.

"I don't know what that word means. But I couldn't let go of what I saw."

"You could have talked to me about it."

"If I had, you would've made me stay. I did what I thought was best at the time. I am not able to put it across any nicer than that."

He knew that she was sincere, that her thought process on the decision was probably less complicated than he imagined.

"I'm sorry," she said, and then stood up. "I have no power over the past. But now that I have set down this new road with you, I will not stop. You will have to kill me if you want me to stop."

"I'm not who I was," Cian said. "And lately I can't guarantee being even that."

"Your soul is wounded," she acknowledged. "But it is still there."

"How do you know?" he whispered.

She kissed him on top of his unkempt, choked-blue hair. "What kind of hunter would I be if I couldn't tell a small thing like that?"

"Ach, ye two are killin' me," Ingomar said, having wandered in for a fourth nightcap. "Get yer arses tae bed. But not together. Separately. Different beds." She shuddered. "Oh, I've given meself nightmares."

"Thanks for ruining the moment, Ing," Cian said.

She raised a frothy mug and said, "Jus' doin' me duty! An' for the record, I don' doubt that ye have a soul. I jus' think it's stained worse than my family's rug on the mornin' after Brewfest." She went back to her room, chuckling.

Eulalia's arms snaked around Cian's waist, and he looked up at her in surprise and more than a little discomfort, as his chin stopped where her chest began. She held him against her like a magnet holding a metal filament, her hard muscles trapping his slight body in a vice grip. Sometimes Cian forgot her strength, forgot that behind her warm, open smile was a woman who could shatter his spine with her bare hands.

Eulalia pressed her cheek to his hair, and he was sure he heard a few vertebrae crack.

"Remember," she whispered. "Wherever you are, I can find you. And I will."

He swallowed. "I'm having some deja-vu."

"I wanted to make the point very clear." She let him go. "Goodnight, Cian McCulloch."

Once she left his field of vision, Cian stumbled against the table, every bone aching, and for once was glad he had no breath to take.


	11. Hot Water

Deathrose, Thorium, Essence, and Hot Water

They parted ways the next morning.

"See yeh soon, bonebag," Ingomar said. "Try not tae let any dogs chew y'up, alrigh'?"

"I'll do my best," Cian said. "Try not to fall under anyone's shoe."

"Oh, aye," Ingomar said. "Or leg warmers, in yer case."

She boarded the hippogriff while he frowned at his clawed feet, which always tore right through the soft leather soles of his boots.

"Give us a shout if your psycho ex comes looking for you," Linnaris said.

"She's not my ex. I hardly know her."

"My mistake," Linn said, grinning mischievously.

Eulalia hugged him, her grip on him so fierce that Cian feared his ribs would crack.

"Please," she whispered in his ear, bending low to match his height, "Please be careful."

"Why is everyone so worried about me?" he said. "I'm not a child." Though, he supposed that twenty-five years was a _little_ young compared to four thousand something. Relatively speaking.

"It is not an easy time for persons of your kind," Eulalia said. "We are only hopeful for your safety." She kissed him, chastely, on his scarred, sallow cheek. "Remember that if you are hurt, we will come for you."

"And what if it's you who gets hurt?" He said, with a little more challenge than necessary.

"Then I expect you to come help me, too," Eulalia said, as if she couldn't think of anything more obvious.

After she left, Cian took out his neglected hearthstone. He touched the rune inscribed on it, and the carving glowed. In a few seconds, he was returned home: the Undercity Inn.

Cian hadn't checked his mailbox in ages, not that he expected anything to be waiting for him, and there wasn't much: a few old letters from the auction house, bits of cloth he had mailed to himself, notes thanking him for fighting the Alliance (oh, irony) and one actual letter, from his friend Kesriana. The scroll bore the seal of her quickly diminishing house (a snake's open mouth, its fangs dripping with venom). Cian unrolled the letter, which asked him to meet her by the bank in two weeks' time. The letter had been sent just before he kidnapped Eulalia, and that had happened nearly a month ago now. Damn.

He was in the middle of scratching out an apology when Kesriana appeared in the inn, as though summoned.

"Nice of you to show up, Mr. McCulloch! I thought you'd gone and got swallowed up by the earth. Or some other manner of slavering beast." She tackled him suddenly, sending him sprawling over an open coffin. His elbow splintered.

"Hi, Kes," he groaned. "Long time no see."

"Damn right. You're lucky we aren't related, or I'd carve out your spleen," she said. "I mean, since the heart's already gone, of course."

"Sorry," he said. "Lots going on."

"Ain't that the truth," she said. "Welcome to the last bastion of free undead on the entire planet, buddy."

"Really?" he said, peeking outside the inn, and finding that the city was unusually bustling.

"Really really! In fact, Ci-ci, now that you're here, I think you'll be politely asked to stick around. Or kicked in the teeth and then politely asked—however you want to play it." She said all of this with cheer and candor, as though the whole situation amused her endlessly. Which, really, it would.

"No, I can't stay—I've got things to do—"

"Yes, yes, every place you have to be is important. For now, why don't you have a cup of rotwood tea with me? I need to dole out some gory details about my trip to the Alterac Mountains … distant cousin there who fell in with the Syndicate, you see …"

Cian supposed he had no grounds to refuse, and he _was_ glad to see her. He didn't get on well with most of his own race, but he and Kes had killed Scarlet zealots together, the sort of experience that created lasting bonds. He obediently followed her to an alchemist's shop (which doubled as an exotic tea service) and then sat with her on the slick, slimy stones of the Undercity floor. He could not linger too long, but presently he had few options: abomination patrol had tripled, and anyone attempting to leave was brutally detained. Nothing short of an audience with Sylvanas herself would grant release.

"Just a quick cup," Cian said. He didn't relish the prospect of meeting with the Dark Lady, but nor did he like the idea of Eulalia and company breaking into the city in search of him. Especially if he was without the water he'd agreed to collect.

"Why's that? What's the rush?" Kes asked. She sipped her tea, grimacing in pleasure.

"Just, things to do," Cian said. "You know."

"What things?" Kes shut one eye, an indication that she sensed a lie.

"Roguish things," he said. "Look, I need to go. Can you help me sneak out of here?"

"Not unless you deign to share the reason," Kes said.

He sighed. "Okay—do you remember the woman I told you about? The one I traveled with before I died?"

She curled her fingers near her ears and flexed them. "Night elf chick, am I right?"

"That'll be the one."

"Are you involved in some kind of cross-faction imbroglio?"

He coughed. "Little bit."

"What did you _do_?" Kes said this with the excitement of a child about to receive a long-anticipated gift.

"I didn't do anything," he said. "Except die, like everyone else here."

"So why do you wanna bust out? Missing your girlfriend?"

"Shh," Cian said. "And we're not dating."

"And I'm not a murderous sociopath with no respect for life!" she paused, laughed. "Oh wait, I completely am!"

"Can't a man and a woman just be friends? Or mortal enemies, as the case may be?" He knew he didn't believe at least one of those statements.

"Sure, normal men and women can," Kes said. "But you passed normal about a plague and a dagger to the chest ago."

"Are you going to help me or not?"

"Give me a real answer and I might do you the same favor," Kes said. She sipped her tea delicately, holding the cup with perfect poise (pinky claw out, other claws in).

"We're trying to find a cure for undeath," Cian said quietly.

"What?" Kes said. She dropped her cup (but her imp caught it handily) and reeled back in her chair. "What did you just say?"

A passing merchant peered over at them, and Cian hissed, "Keep it down! Like you said, I'm not related to you, so you don't need to kill me!"

"Of course I don't," she said. "You're already dead, in case you've failed to notice."

"Well, my friend thinks she can fix that."

"And you want to help her."

"Yes," he said, explaining about the Pharmakon Elixir and the journal.

"Interesting. Hopeless and stupid, but interesting."

She considered for a moment, swirling the dregs of her tea around the bottom of the cup. Her imp danced under the table, chattering to her in demonic, and Kes nodded like she understood.

"Right then," she said, "Let's mosey."

"You have an idea?" Cian said hopefully.

"The sewers," she said. "They're heavily guarded right now, naturally, but I'll distract them so you can nip by."

Cian bowed low. "Thank you."

"Ah, I was getting bored anyway."

"Why don't you escape too?"

"My cousin may or may not have become the leader of a major crime syndicate in my absence, and I may or may not have spooned his eyeballs out of his head. As a consequence, legions of thugs may or may not be looking for me." Kes shrugged, whistled. "Possibly."

She motioned for him to follow. "C'mon. This is gonna be good."

Cian gratefully obeyed, and hoped the others were having an easier time on their respective quests.

--

Cian's handwriting was about as legible as bear spit. Ingomar pursed her lips and squinted at her third of parchment. Her list was short, and she was already nearly done; the recipe called for some quantities of powdered gold, mithril, and thorium, and she needed only to gather the thorium.

Still, these were all her best guesses—Cian's loopy scrawl could be asking for anything, depending on how she rotated the parchment. He'd just have to take her findings and like them.

Ingomar steered her ram across the bridge into the Eastern Plaguelands, her senses attuned to the presence of any minerals in the immediate area. She felt a tingle along her spine as she passed the Marris Stead, home to Nathanos Blightcaller. Cautiously, Ingomar directed her ram up the slope beside the farmhouse. If the mineral deposit was close enough, she could mine it without attracting any unsavory attention.

But she needn't have worried. Nathanos was not home.

"Well, then," Ingomar said to her ram. "Tha's nice." She hopped down off her saddle and ambled towards the thorium vein, which was jutting out of one of the small hills near the farmhouse. Bones of past challengers to Nathanos' authority cracked under her plate boots as she climbed the hill, miner's pick at the ready. She struck the glowing green crystal, and as it sang from the force, she heard a voice. In her peripheral vision, she spotted movement inside the farmhouse, silhouettes passing by the broken, grimy windows. Perhaps other travelers. She could have paused, investigated. But Ingomar did not suffer interruptions when mining, and she struck the vein again. Light take her if a few unknown mutterings deterred her purpose.

She liked mining even more than fishing; the vibration of cracking mineral soothed her in the deepest, most dwarvenly bits of her nature. Pulling riches from the earth felt as natural as walking or breathing, as simple and pleasurable as peeling a ripe fruit. The blood of stones flowed in her veins, and mining felt like accepting gifts from her family.

The voices multiplied with each strike of Ingomar's pick. She was nearly finished with the vein when someone spoke from directly behind her.

"Nice day, isn't it?"

Ingomar glanced over her shoulder. A low-ranking member of the Cult of the Damned, a peasant in necromancer's clothing. Her lower lip curled. "If ye like unholy decay an' th' smell of fresh corpses in th' mornin'," she said. "Which I reckon y'do."

"I'm a student at the school of necromancy," he said politely. "My homework is to capture a dwarf for dissection. I really thought it would be harder!" He was smiling, proud. Ingomar took another chunk out of the thorium vein.

"Fortunately," the student went on, "Professor Vector didn't say the specimen had to be alive, or I'd be sooo worried. Live flesh is super hard to wrangle, am I right?" He thrust a dagger into her back, and Ingomar growled as the flimsy blade crumpled against her armor.

"I gave ye a chance, laddie," she said, turning around. "I jus' want ye tae know 'at."

She unhooked her hammer from her belt and brought it down on the student's head. He wilted faster than his weapon had, squealing like a frog and managing a throttled complaint about due dates and the loss of his scholarship. Ingomar kicked him for good measure, and then frowned at the farmhouse. Two or three other students were huddled inside it, clearly plotting her demise.

"Barry, you idiot!" a girl shouted. "We were supposed to attack together. This is a group project!"

"Ye've got tae be kiddin' me," Ingomar said. She charged into the house, knocked out the shouting girl, and then incapacitated the two remaining with sharp, swift blows to their chests. She consecrated the ground beneath their bodies, and sighed as the acrid scent of sizzling, corrupted flesh filled the air.

"Nobody interrupts me minin'," she said. "Or collects me for nae bloody dissection, neither."

She touched her hearthstone. She had an appointment to keep.

--

Linnaris turned the blade like a screw into her opponent's back. Viscous liquid seeped from the elemental's wound, and she struck next across its midsection, causing it to falter and dissipate. Its bracers fell with a thunk to the ground, and Linnaris stuffed its life essence into her pack. She was in Felwod, cutting down the toxic horrors that bubbled and splashed their way through deep pits in the forest floor. She was having absolutely no problems or interruptions; in fact, things were so lovely that she hummed a jaunty tune to accompany her relentless slaughter.

She whistled as she strolled up the path to Talonbranch Glade, blades dripping with elemental goo.

"Acid green isn't really your color."

"Hey, there, Arolaide," Linnaris said, turning. The priest's horse galloped onto the path, followed closely by a Dreadsteed carrying a gnome warlock.

"We killed cultists," Viraj said proudly. His horse cantered up by Linnaris and Viraj hugged her neck, which Linnaris endured until her boot tips melted from proximity to the Dreadsteed's flaming hooves.

"Those people disgust me," Arolaide said. "Who installs braziers anymore? I mean, honestly. Wall sconces offer a much subtler effect, don't you think?"

"Absolutely," Linnaris said. "Where you headed?"

"Nowhere fabulous. Do you need something?" Arolaide said.

"Nope," Linnaris said. "I have to say, this is the easiest thing I've done in a while."

No sooner had the words faded from the air than did an echoing roar shake the trees around them.

"Uncouth," Arolaide said.

Linnaris squinted into the murky forest. The path trembled, pebbles bounced against her calves. She smelled burning leaves, and a pile of branches crashed onto the stones, engulfed in green flames. The Infernal stomped out a moment later, barreling directly at Linnaris.

"I think not, sir!" Viraj said. He intoned a spell in demonic, and chains wrapped around the Infernal's rock and sulfur body, binding its rage.

"Destroy … you …" it said, in its echoing, burnt baritone of a voice.

"Hey, buddy, what'd I ever do to you?" Linnaris said.

"Destroy … all of you … " the Infernal said, and a fresh rumbling almost knocked Linn off of her feet.

"I can't hold him forever," Viraj said. "Or any of his friends. Much as I would like to! But Infernals are pretty high up there on the ornery scale."

"You might want to mount, dear," Arolaide said.

Linnaris summoned her nightsaber as a whole pack of Infernals crashed through the trees, clambering rapidly after Linnaris and her two friends, their fiery rock limbs tearing through tree trunks and underbrush, upsetting the owls.

"Honey, did you steal something from Sargeras himself?" Arolaide said. She clucked her tongue, and their mounts took off. "Because I hope it was good."

"I was just here for some life essence! That's it!" Linnaris cried. The Infernals roared in unison, and their mounts groaned in fear, spurred on by their own anxiety as much as their riders'.

"There weren't any Infernals even near me," Linnaris said. "Not a single one."

"They must want something from you," Viraj said.

"I haven't done anything to want me for," Linnaris said, looking back at the oncoming Infernal tide, led by the one Viraj had released moments before scrambling into his Dreadsteed's saddle. "Unless those elementals are paying the demons for protection."

"Maybe it was how you did it," Viraj suggested. "Maybe they thought you were mocking them."

"_They weren't near me_!"

Exasperated, she half-wanted to turn around and ask the demons what the problem was, but a voice in her head advised her against this plan.

"Hate to interrupt this productive discussion," Arolaide said. "But they seem to be catching up."

"You guys keep going," Linnaris said. "I'll handle this."

Arolaide looked askance at Linn. "Ordinarily I might agree, but I think we're firmly in this one together. Infernals aren't known for their discerning intelligence when it comes to their targets. Even if they _want_ you, they're going to _get_ us."

"Bloody hell," Linn said. They couldn't lead the demons to the glade, or any other populated place—Linnaris had done some things in her life that she wouldn't want put in a book, but damned if she'd be responsible for the destruction of any villages or outposts. Except …

"Deadwood," she gasped. "The furbolgs will distract'em."

She veered off the road, and the Infernals followed, proving that she was their quarry. Linnaris charged into the hostile furbolg village, and was instantly set upon by their shaman and warriors, though their attentions shifted when the Infernals flowed over their huts, like a river of living lava. The furbolgs abandoned their pursuit of Linnaris and attacked the demons, as she expected. Their numbers were so great that the demons were overwhelmed, and Linnaris headed back to the road, meeting up with Arolaide and Viraj by the entrance to Timbermaw Hold.

"Let's get the hell out of here," she said.

The three hurried to Talonbranch (after warning the outpost about a possible Infernal threat) and hopped gryphons to Darnassus.

Resting on the gryphon's feathered neck, Linnaris let her muscles unclench, felt her sweat dry in the rushing wind. The attack troubled her. Had she taken something of import to the Burning Legion recently? She thought not, but truth be told, she had picked a lot of pockets. A review of her filchings, major and minor, could occupy her for the rest of her life. And she hardly had time for that: she wasn't immortal anymore.

But the danger was behind her now, hopefully still ravaging the corrupted furbolg camp. Maybe it was a freak thing, maybe Viraj was somehow right.

Maybe. Hopefully.

--

The deathrose bloomed only on the corpses of forest shamblers, along the thick vines that comprised their muscles. Eulalia extracted one with expert precision, taking it by the root, keeping every delicate, crimson petal intact. As she tucked the flower into her pouch, her long ears picked up a faint rustling in the canopy. This was not the light movement of a bird, but the harsh dissonance produced by swift limbs. Someone was there.

"Greetings, Shan'do Swiftarrow." Her visitor dropped down before her. His black leather armor blurred the shape of his body, melding it with the shadows. An owl perched on his shoulder, and hooted at Eulalia with familiarity.

"Hello, thero'shan," Eulalia said. The male night elf pressed his fist to his palm and bowed low.

She giggled and dragged him into a brisk hug, which he endured grimly. The owl hooted again and stepped onto Eulalia's head. She reached to smooth its feathers.

"You look nice, Villanelle," she told the owl. "How are you, Yldwen?"

"I am well," Yldwen said. "Though wondering about your business in Ashenvale."

"I'm not hurtin' stuff," Eulalia said. "This guy was dead when I got here, pinky swear."

"I have little concern for that," Yldwen said. "But the deathrose is a potent herb, as I am sure you are aware."

"It is for the health of a dear friend."

"Health, hm? What health do you hope to restore with poison?"

"I don't quite know yet," Eulalia admitted, and opened her bags to her student, so that he could see the various herbs she had so far collected. "But to be fair, there is no limit to the things I do not know."

"Interesting assemblage," Yldwen said. He would not ask her for the details; it was not his custom to pry, or even to appear prying. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, and Villanelle perched on his shoulder, her amber eyes as inquisitive and luminous as his own.

"Does anything else bother you, thero'shan?"

"Much, shan'do," Yldwen said. "The wind smells of decay, and betides ill omens."

"That makes sense," Eulalia said. "What with all the zombifyin' happening lately."

"Yes. I would ask you to take care."

"I'm not worried."

"Sometimes it is not our enemies we should fear."

"You've been reading again," Eulalia said.

"Perhaps a little."

Surreptitiously, in the motion of affixing her pouches to her belt, Eulalia slipped an arrow from her quiver and threw it, aiming to pierce Yldwen's throat. A second's whistle, and Yldwen's hand caught the arrow, stopping it before the point breached his skin. He flipped the arrow in his fingers and returned it to her with a sober expression.

"Never be distracted by idle talk," Yldwen said, before she could. "Though I do not mark this talk as idleness."

"Surely not," Eulalia said cheerfully. "But all noise distracts the senses, if not rightly managed."

"Doubtlessly so, shan'do. Lately I have found much reason to heed this advice. Just two days ago the undead, who used to confine their crawling and slinking to the ruined barrow den, launched an attack on Forest Song. Their numbers have multiplied, and they have concealed themselves in the trees. Astranaar is finally considering a fence."

"And …" Eulalia said slowly, "What did you make of your attackers?"

"Clearly not an organized Horde force, if that's what you're asking," Yldwen said. "I couldn't discern their objective; they don't seem interested in much beyond general destruction. In fact, I've seen groups of them harrying the orc lumbermen of the Warsong Clan."

"Did you help?" Eulalia asked, sharply.

Yldwen's expression remained placid. "Naturally. Though I did not permit myself to be seen."

Eulalia nodded. "Good."

"It is dishonorable to abide an unfair fight."

"And in such times sides should be forgotten," Eulalia finished. After a moment's quiet, she said, "What brings you here, anyway? I thought you preferred colder, dwarvier places."

"I do. But I am called by trouble."

"Aww. You really are my student."

Yldwen set his hands palm-up on his knees. "Afternoon meditation is upon me."

Eulalia rose and bowed. "I gotta hurry, especially after what you've said. Please protect everyone here as best you can."

Yldwen's body faded into the shadows, as Villanelle took flight. "Until my bones and blood run to dust, shan'do."

--

Sweat collected in Cian's breastbone, slid down the exposed vertebra of his back, dampened the leathers stuck to his body. Hanging vines, heavy with flowering fruit, brushed the top of his head as he stole through the jungle, wary of the ancient and hungry wildlife. A devilsaur stomped by Cian's hidden form and it lingered, its beady, savagely intelligent eyes intent upon the patch of air that concealed him. Startled, Cian realized that the primal spark in the creature's eyes reminded him of Eulalia.

He expected her and the others to show up soon, as he was already a day and a half late for their agreed meeting, though not of his own volition. Kesriana's distraction had proven effective (but what quarterwit abomination wasn't amused by an imp's acrobatics, combined with a loose Infernal and a Doomguard?), but he trudged through the rank sewers while cloaked in shadow, and had remained that way until Orgrimmar. Not wanting to report to Thrall yet (and observing the distinct lack of undead presence in the orcish city), he had crept from there as well, slowly making his way to Ratchet, the place that had started him on this insane venture.

The goblins, as predicted, weren't bothered about his race. They dealt with anyone who had money, and will enough to part with it.

As a consequence of this roundabout traveling, and his original stopover in the Undercity, he was ridiculously off-schedule. He could almost hear Ingomar's unsurprised contempt, Eulalia's worry, Linnaris's exasperation. He would explain when they found him.

The hot springs weren't far now. His bone toes clutched the soft, aromatic soil as she slipped through trees that seemed to brush the clouds. Rich, musky smells of sweet flowers, damp gorilla fur, and old raptor droppings hung thick in the air, which was itself heavy as a cotton veil. Cian loved it, the perfume and the filth, too heady to be ignored. Breathing in the scent of so much life made him feel a little alive, too. In Un'Goro, he walked on this planet's pulse, felt it thrum steadily beneath the fertile earth.

The Lich King's voice could not reach him here, could not extend its chilled tendrils into this cradle of life. As he approached the hot springs, something like optimism blossomed within him. Perhaps the ancient power in the crater really could cure undeath.

Cian took the flask out of his bags and bent beside the largest pool, filling the container with one scoop. He was about to break into a sprint when he heard something heavy tromping towards him. He let the shadows conceal him, and for a moment the heavy footfalls stopped. At first he thought it was one of the girls' mounts, but if they saw him, why not call out? Quietly, Cian drew his knives. Maybe it was just a dinosaur.

The footsteps resumed, and a felguard soon entered Cian's field of view. It marched straight at him, battle axe raised, as though Cian weren't hidden at all. When the demon was within twenty yards, it charged. Stunned, both literally and figuratively, Cian leapt back from the felguard's axe swing, narrowly avoiding the unplanned separation of his torso from his legs.

Cursing, he rolled on the ground and jumped up behind the demon, driving both his daggers into its back. It howled in fury and tried to whirl around, but Cian jammed the pommel of one dagger into his best estimation of the thing's kidney, and its body sagged. Triumphant, Cian prepared for a finishing strike, but before he could brace himself, another axe cut into his back. Snarling, he jumped sideways, tearing his cloak to rags on the edges of two menacing axes, and was confronted with a score more of felguards, each one angrier than the last.

"Do you guys need something?" Cian said, eyeing the broad clearing around the springs, looking for a decent means of escape.

"Just your broken bones, darlin'," a female voice said, and the felguard army parted to allow a young warlock through. She wasn't Nina, but she had the same sinuous carriage, same off-hand attitude in her cold, painted face.

"Who the hell are you?" Cian said.

"A friend, though my mama calls me Amarantha," the woman replied. "Why don't you come along with me, sugar? No need for all this vulgarity." She nodded to the demons that stood ready to converge on Cian.

"You're from the cult, aren't you?" Cian said. "What do you people want from me?"

"Personally, honey, I couldn't care less about you," Amarantha said. "But my baby sister's got designs on you, and she's a little busy just now, so I'm doin' her a favor. Cos I'm just a sweet girl like that." The woman smiled.

"I should have left your sister to burn," Cian said.

"She's a hellcat, no doubt," Amarantha said cheerfully. "But she didn't need your help, sweetie. Though surely you figured _that _out by now."

Cian shook his head. "What?"

"She chose you. Saw you stumbling around outside the family bakery—oh, how savory our pies were that day—and she got a little crush." The woman cocked her head to one side, appraising him. "She likes'em slim-hipped like you. Can't say I disagree, though you're still not what I prefer."

"Chose me?" Cian repeated, in shock.

"Sure, darlin'. You've been her pet project for the past four years. Who do you think commanded you while you were with us?"

"I don't remember," he said. "I try not to remember."

Amarantha laughed, rich and throaty, warm like a poker to the gut. "That explains a lot, my goodness."

"I don't want to hear any more," Cian said. He took a step back, and then dove into the hot springs. The woman howled with fresh laughter, and the felguards surged forward. Luckily, they were not skilled swimmers. Cian easily outpaced them, aiming for a strange fissure near the floor of the pool. Closing in on it, Cian thought the fissure looked unnatural, its edges jagged, like a wound. He was apprehensive, but low on options. He dove in.

Breath wasn't a problem for Cian's almost non-existent respiratory system, but the water scalded his bones, boiled the thick green sludge in his veins. He dropped onto solid ground relatively quickly, but the hard-packed dirt under his claws was no comfort. Giant insects, hideous hybrids of centipedes and beetles with poisonous, serrated mandibles, flanked him on all sides. A saying about frying pans and fires flashed through his mind.

"This day just keeps getting better," he grumbled as the insects advanced, hissing.

--

"He ain't comin', lassie," Ingomar said. "Knew I shouldna let yeh talk to tha' useless git."

"Something's wrong," Eulalia said soberly. "He promised."

"Oh, lass," Ingomar said, in the gentle, slightly condescending tone of someone who Knew Better. "Yeh cannae trust'im. Iono what happened between ye two when he was alive, but ye've got tae get somethin' straigh'—he ain' that man no more."

They sat, with Linnaris, in the Gadgetzan inn, around a long wooden table covered with platters of meat, fruit, and cheese. Linnaris sipped a glass of wine, listening keenly while her friends spoke. Eulalia gnawed on a boar flank, set it aside, and began to pull apart one of the softer cheeses.

Cian was three hours late.

"That is what he said, too," she informed her hunk of Darnassian mild. "But I think you both are wrong."

"Gonna side with Ing and Absentee McCulloch on this one, Euls," Linnaris said finally. "The boy died, hon. And who knows what the Scourge forced him to do before he got his will back? We can't name the horrors he's seen. Or committed."

"I don't care," Eulalia said. "He needs us. Something is wrong."

She stood up abruptly. "I'm going to find him."

"Alrigh', calm down," Ingomar said. "We'll all go together. If'n he's really hurt, he'll be after some healin'."

"I have bandages," Linnaris said helpfully.

Eulalia grabbed the two women as they made for the exit, hugged them tightly. "Thank you."

"Shucks," Linn said. "What are friends for, if not hunting down irascible zombie boyfriends?"

"What's a boyfriend?" Eulalia said wonderingly, though she was fuzzy on 'irascible' as well. That word sounded like a bitter root.

"Tell you when you're older," Linnaris said.

They emerged into the searing heat of the midday desert. Just before the city gates, Eulalia paused to speak with a goblin, passing him some coins in exchange for a handful of flasks filled with a bubbly, aquamarine liquid. To Linnaris, she said, "Hey! I'm gonna be five thousand in a few hundred years!"

"Baaby," Linn said, grinning.

On their mounts now, they set out across Tanaris, traveling west to the Un'Goro Crater.

"But really," Eulalia said, "that's like a mate, right?"

"Yeah," Linn said. "Sorta."

"Can we maybe not be edgin' 'round the concept of Forsaken and matin', if yeh please?" Ingomar said. "I'd prefer to keep me lunch firmly in me belly, if it's all tha' same tae you lot."

Eulalia didn't pursue the matter, but Linnaris noticed her friend's lavender cheeks darken, and she stifled a giggle.

They rode until sunset, and then made camp in the middle of the desert. Ingomar built an enormous, cozy fire, and began to fry fish for dinner.

"I am happy, though," Eulalia said, as she watched Ing hum a dwarven drinking song and prod the fish.

"Ye oughta be," Ing said. "These salmon are gonna be spot on."

"Not about that. Well, I mean, about that, but also, I'm happy you both are here."

"A'course," Ing said. "I'm sure if I had a repugnant friend in constant need 'o rescue, ye'd be there in a ram's charge."

Eulalia nodded eagerly, then processed the statement and said, "I suspect that was an unkind word, just then."

"Trust yer intuition, me mum always said. Mind, after every baby she'd intuit that there'd be nae more, and I've got more brothers an' sisters than an oak has twigs."

"When I met Cian, he was very shy and kind. I still remember how he would stop to feed rabbits or squirrels that we met on the road. The rats too, even the black ones in Darkshire with mean eyes." She sighed. "Then Kitteh would kill and eat them."

"Circle of life," Linnaris said.

"I know ye miss who he was, Eulie," Ingomar said. "But ye cannae forget who he _is_. No one can 'ave gone through what he did and come out just as they were before."

"I believe that his heart is good."

"Y'mean the one he's nae got?"

"I was not speaking like that. Like physical-type," Eulalia said, flustered.

"Literally," Linnaris supplied.

"I'm hopin' yer righ'," Ingomar said. "Truly, I am. I'm just preparin' ye for th' inevi—er, I mean, th' possibilities."

Eulalia turned away from the campfire, tucked her hands beneath her cheeks, and rested her head on her tiger's flank as though he were a pillow. Kitteh rumbled pleasantly, and set his own great head between his paws.

Vexed, Eulalia did not sleep, but instead pouted at the empty, arid desert, at the cold, clear sky, at the silent dunes. She disliked the desert, though it spoke to her, as did all wild places. But the sand kept its secrets, and whatever it told was whispered, garbled, wary.

Ingomar poked her friend in the back with a skewer of salmon, which Eulalia accepted gratefully. After eating, her mood was much improved, but she longed for the riot of the jungle, for its cacophony, its willingness. More importantly, she longed to find Cian.

In the unruly garden of her mind, there stood some pillars of understanding for Ingomar's words. Eulalia did not much like these pillars, and felt they added very little to an otherwise lovely arrangement, but she could not deny that they existed. But if he was a stranger, if he was wholly changed, then that only increased her debt to him, and made her want to know him better, so that she might understand him, too.

Eventually, Ingomar and Linnaris fell asleep. Eulalia rolled onto her back, and felt her tiger's rhythmic heartbeat echo in her body, as he dreamed of the hunt, his paws occasionally batting an invisible foe.

Eulalia drew patterns in the sky and worried for her friend. She thought of their last conversation, though it shamed her. She thought of the kiss. She had been kissed before, though never so kindly. She had learned, through observation, that it was a prelude to mating among the upright races, which was rather less straightforward than the practices of the nightsabers who cared for her as a cub. Also, while animals didn't concern themselves over an audience, people tended toward unhappy feelings if they discovered an onlooker (and Eulalia used to onlook, guilelessly, while wandering the pools that speckled the forests of her youth).

It seemed a nice experience, and it had been, except for when the other fellow expected you not to move the next morning, and not to see anyone else. Eulalia needed to move and to see, and while her mates had passed the time, she could not remember any touch, any sigh, any lips except Cian's.

Nightsabers did not have lifetime unions, but Eulalia had seen night elf, high elf, even human and dwarf weddings by now (mostly dwarf, owing to Ingomar's large and excitable family). Feeling self-conscious as she imagined herself in all that confining lace, Eulalia pressed her face into Kitteh's coarse fur. She cleared her mind of all but tomorrow's task, and managed a little rest.

--

They reached the edge of the desert by late afternoon the next day. They were racing along the rim that separated the crater from Tanaris when an agonized scream, reduced to a gasp by its long journey upwards, just barely reached their ears. Eulalia halted her mount, ordered it back some ways, and then jumped down, peering over the rim's edge and into the crater below.

"Are ye sure?" Ingomar said.

"Yes," Eulalia raised her arms, curled her fingers, and stood on point, as wild magic swirled around her fists. Her eyesight sharpened, and she looked beyond the canopy, down past the branches crawling with insects and feasting birds, until she saw the jungle floor. Cian lay there on a pile of scattered soil, his ankle and one arm broken. Green blood oozed from his wounds, and the candlelights of his eyes were dim. He clutched at the soil, as if meaning to fling it at his attackers, which were too numerous to count—waves of felguards, interspersed with angry, clattering silthid, all closing in rapidly. He grimaced, and Eulalia felt his despair.

She released the magic and took out a flask from her bags, one of the potions she'd purchased in Gadgetzan.

"He's there," she said. "Big trouble. You guys hurry."

"What are you doing?" Linnaris said, as Eulalia ran from the edge.

"Keeping my promise," she replied. At about twenty feet from the edge, she stopped. Then, she broke into a sprint, dashing for the rim as though it were a finish line she had to cross.

"Euls!" Ingomar cried, as the night elf launched herself into the crater.

"Go!" Eulalia said, and then her body fell, gaining momentum with every second.

Dumbfounded, her friends took off for the entrance to the crater, hoping to reach Eulalia's corpse before any hungry predators.

But Eulalia had no intention of dying. She drank the flask midway through her fall, and laughed as her body became feather-light. She let go of the empty flask and the wind slammed it into a tree trunk, where it shattered into so many glittering shards. As these pieces fell around him, Cian looked up, just in time to see Eulalia's potion fade. She drew her polearm and landed, full-force, in front of him, her restored weight causing a small quake that threw up rocks and dirt in a circle around her crouched knees. In the ensuing confusion, she impaled the nearest felguard with her spear, smiling maniacally as its blood coated the tines and dripped down the shaft of her weapon.

"Hi there," Eulalia said. "Need some help?"

"A little," Cian coughed, unable to mask his amazement (or his terrible, worsening pain). "It's been a long day."

Eulalia helped him up and he staggered against her, unable to stand fully upright.

"We've got to run," Cian said. "There are too many."

Eulalia nodded and then suddenly lifted him, swinging him onto her back like a sack of grain. As he hung, helplessly swaying over her shoulders, she kneeled on the grass and laid a trap. As the demons and silithid attacked, the ground froze, forming a slick, steaming layer of ice that slowed their onslaught.

"Wha' in th' name 'o Uther's beard have ye gotten yerself into!" Ingomar roared over the tide, as she and Linnaris arrived, plowing through the hostile crowd on their mounts. At first, they were ignored—the objective seeming firmly to be Cian—but then a woman astride a Dreadsteed joined the oncoming fray.

"What delicious friends you have!" she called to Cian, and he struggled to lift his chin, to look into her glinting eye. Her plans had changed. She shouted to the felguards in demonic, and they turned on Ingomar and Linnaris, forcibly dragging them from their mounts.

Several felguards then charged Eulalia at once, and she dropped Cian as she was flung backwards. The demons grabbed her arms and legs, hefting her over their heads while she thrashed and spat like a feral cat.

"Get out of here!" Linnaris cried to Cian, as she stabbed wildly, unable to maintain her focus or balance. Ingomar could hardly intone a spell, so many and so swift were the axe strikes.

The impact from the drop had broken Cian's other ankle, and he lay still, unsure of what to do.

"Move it, ye great idiot!" Ingomar yelled. "Else we're doin' this fer nothin'!"

The felguards had bound Eulalia, oblivious to the deep gouges she had inflicted on each of them. They tossed her unceremoniously on the back of the warlock's dreadsteed, then went to help their brothers overwhelm Ingomar and Linnaris.

Cian was helpless. He beat the dirt in frustration, and struggled to stand, only to collapse after a few seconds on his feet. They should have stayed where they were! Their shouts—angry, fierce, but still laced with real fear—rang in his ears. Ingomar and Linnaris were captured. The tides of demons receded, though not before the warlock allowed them to unleash their aggression on the silithid who had chased Cian from their tunnels.

"Thank you for these gorgeous presents," Amarantha cooed to Cian, as she looked down at his heaving, bloody body. She leaned back in her saddle and trailed a curved fingernail across Linnaris's horrified face. "I shall enjoy them."

"Don't … don't you touch her," Cian said, and cringed at his own humiliation, his powerless threat.

"You can see them again," Amarantha said. "Though I daresay my sister will want a chat first. Come visit us, won't you? We'll be waiting." She smiled lovingly at her cargo. "We'll _all_ be waiting."

Her manicured nail sliced the air in front of her, opening a dark portal which sealed itself after she disappeared inside of it.

--

Staaay tuned :)

Mini-playlist for this chapter:

"Ain't No Mountain High Enough" (Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell version)

"If You're Gonna Jump" (Natasha Bedingfeld, remixed by Paul Oakenfold)


	12. The Curse Between Us

The Curse Between Us, Pt. 1

Cian's scream echoed through the trees, as raw and primal as any creature of the jungle. He was sewing his ankle back together, and it hurt like hell. As he bit the needle so hard between his teeth that the metal bent, Cian threaded sticky strands of boar sinew through the pinhead, and then repaired his bones as best he could. The process was slow, marked with errors and restarts, and the pain from his torn muscles was so intense that he barely kept conscious. When Cian could flex his muscles again, he wrapped them in bandages and carefully stood up, for the first time in two days.

Taking care of the ankles, excruciating though it was, didn't compare to the trouble of mending his broken arm, which he had seen to first. He imagined he looked properly ghoulish as the trails of his bandages fluttered in the breeze, and he grimaced with every step. He ought to have taken some time to rest, but while he played tailor to his body, he was tortured with images of Eulalia, Ingomar, and Linnaris, suffering at the hands (or whips, or daggers, or slow killing curses) of those crazy witches.

He knew, somehow intrinsically, where Eulalia and the others had been taken: the Scholomance. A loathsome, panicked desire welled in him, a compulsion to leave them there and forget all this, to run away. He dismissed it before it percolated and took hold of him, but Cian was disgusted with himself nonetheless.

The sound of dissipating arcane energy alerted him as he called for his horse. An'jin appeared a moment later, his demeanor casual.

"You have a habit of showing up just past the nick of bloody time," Cian scowled.

"Sorry, mon," An'jin said. "It's like I told you, I'm not stalkin' ya. I din't see dat ya was bein' followed by anudder until ya were already in da thick of t'ings."

"You mean, surrounded by demons and silithid, forced to watch as some of the only people who have ever pretended to care about me were kidnapped by a sadistic warlock?"

"Ya, mon. Dat's what I mean."

Exhaling in frustration, Cian said, "Are you going to be useful for once, and help me rescue them?"

An'jin bowed low. "Ya've guessed da exact reason for my callin' on ya."

"Great. Let's get going, then. How long d'you reckon it would take a wyvern to fly from here to the Bulwark?" Cian said, only half-sarcastic. Typically, wyverns refused to cross the Great Sea, but maybe if he paid the goblin at Marshal's Refuge a little more than the average fee …

"Why don't I jus' make us a nice portal ta Orgrimmar?" An'jin said, hands aglow.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Cian said. "I'm told all the undead are being detained in Undercity. D'you have any left in the capital?"

"Not many, no," An'jin admitted. "But I'll vouch for ya. It'll be fine."

Cian suspected a trick: though he was satisfied that An'jin was not an agent of the Socurge, Cian couldn't bring himself to trust the troll fully. His unruffled demeanor was off-putting somehow, as though he were privy to more than he let on, as though he'd glimpsed the end of the story and found it hilarious. And trolls were known for their macabre sense of humor.

"Also, I don't have time to report," Cian said. "I can't be chatting it up while … while those women are suffering."

"I think ya underestimate'em still," An'jin said. He gestured to the Orgrimmar portal. "But very well. Let's not be chattin', den."

--

Ingomar was used to the cold. Although she hailed from the Wildhammer clan, she had left the gently crisp climate of Aerie Peak for Ironforge not long after she came of age. Paladins were uncommon in the Wildhammer ranks: though they did not reject the Light, they cared for gryphons, for heavens full of clouds and stars rather than mysterious beings and intangible promises.

Ingomar knew, of course, that the Light was as real and true as any feather on the grass. She had heard it whisper to her, from the trees in the forest that surrounded the Peak, from beneath the snows that cloaked the sheer cliffs outside Ironforge. Its presence ran through her blood, sure as oxygen. Even here, trapped in a cell, stripped of all but her tabard and skivvies, the Light pulsed within her, and she was not afraid.

But she was thirsty.

"Couldna left a girl her booze, eh?" Ingomar shouted to the guards outside. One of them shifted nervously. "I ain't had a proper pint in hours. I'm nae liable fer me actions when I'm sober."

"Settle down," said the other guard. He turned his head, glaring at her. The guard was no more than a human boy, comparable in age to the group of necromancers Ingomar had met at the Marris Stead.

"Wot is this noo, a daycare?" Ingomar said. "You lot are all babies."

"We are students of necromancy, ma'am," said the nervous guard. "And this is our school."

"Aye, I know 'at. I jes dinnae recall so many kiddies runnin' round."

"That's because you're an idiot," said the sour guard. "The Scholomance is not merely the manor house of the Barovs. That's only the main campus. The bulk of the school is beneath Andorhal."

"Where you are now," said the nervous guard, helpfully, which prompted his friend to pinch his forearm.

"Don't talk to them like that," he hissed.

"Them?" Ingomar said.

"Yes, ma'am," said the nervous guard, rubbing his arm, "your companions are also in this cell block."

"Damn it, Jeff!" the sour guard said. "Shut the hell up before I summon a skeleton to kick your ass."

"But you failed last week's summoning exam," Jeff said innocently, which earned him another pinch. "Marshall, that hurts."

"You're so useless, man. I can't believe your parents are High Priests in the cult. They must have bribed Gandling with a wheelbarrow of prime sacrifices to get you in here."

"Just because I'm not mean to everybody all the time …"

Ingomar felt a headache pricking at her temples. She'd give a hair off Uther's chin for a jug of bourbon about now.

"Can you two dunderheads keep it down?" Linnaris's voice called from somewhere to Ing's left. "I'm plotting my daring escape, you see, and it's awfully hard to concentrate with all the racket."

"Insolent wench," Marshall growled. "I heard Lady Amarantha wants dinner with you tonight. See if you're so impertinent then."

Ingomar stuck her head between the bars of her cell and saw Linn sticking her tongue out, with her eyes crossed.

"What the matter? Too scared to shut me up yourself?" she said, kissing her hand, and then patting her butt.

Angrily, Marshall fumbled for his keyring, but Jeff touched the taller boy's wrist. "She's just baiting you, man."

Red flushed Marshall's sallow, thin cheeks. His face looked like a piece of parchment with tomato juice spilled across it, worn despite his obvious youth. Jeff looked positively healthy in contrast, with cheeks round as pumpkins and bright, evergreen eyes.

"This is so lame," Marshall grumbled. "I didn't know prison duty was part of the job when I signed up to be a resident assistant."

"Well, they are residing here," Jeff said. "For a little while."

The sound of echoing footsteps quieted them both. A high elf, with wispy limbs and no particular expression, appeared at the bottom of a long staircase.

"Lady Amarantha desires her dinner guest," the elf said dully, and raised a leaf-thin palm. Nettled, Marshall dropped his keyring onto the elf's fingers; the keys clanged together as the metal ring slid past her knuckles. She closed her palm into a fist and walked, staggeringly, towards Linnaris's cell. The two young guards watched her with a mixture of revulsion and desire.

"Come along," the high elf said to Linn, "you must be prepared."

"Gonna baste me?" Linn said.

The high elf didn't reply; only herded Linn from the cell. Her movements were truncated, unsure, as though she were not the pilot of her own body. Her voice, too, rang unnaturally to Ingomar's ears; it had no spark to it, no undercurrents, no inflections. And yet the woman was not dead—though her complexion was sun-starved, she inhaled and exhaled regularly, and her lips were pink.

Ingomar shuddered, and not because of the pervasive chill.

When the high elf and Linnaris had gone, the two guards blinked and shook their heads.

"Sometimes I think it is a good thing that Lady Amarantha is not interested in men," Jeff said.

"Sometimes?" said Marshall. "I thank the shadows for it every day."

"Thank the shadows? Man, who_ talks_ like that?"

"What! We're necromancers!"

"Well, no need to be so pretentious about it."

The headache knocked between Ingomar's ears again.

"Do you think she'll want this elf, too?" Marshall moved to the third cell on the block, which Ingomar realized belonged to Eulalia. "If not, maybe I can have her."

"Have me for what?" Eulalia said, and abruptly pushed most of her chin and cheeks though the bars, so close to where Marshall was leaning in that he jumped back. She grinned hugely, baring shark-sharp teeth. "I'm not good at most lady-things, you know."

Marshall flattened his robes in a way that made Jeff and Ingomar roll their eyes. "Well, uh, I could teach you."

"Aren't you in Feoh Feoh Ur?" Jeff said, with such sweetness that Ingomar wondered if he was feigning it, "The inscription on the last coffin in the East Crypt says that everyone in your fraternity is a virgin."

"Dude," Marshall said. "You know some jealous cock from Siegel Ac Ior wrote that like a hundred years ago. The only reason it's still there is because he used a cursed stylus to carve the inscription, and you can't get that shit out unless you've broken the stylus and freed all the souls trapped inside of it. Duh, man. Everyone knows that."

He straightened the collar of his robe.

Eulalia lolled against the bars of her cell, not seeming bothered by the frozen steel.

"Mind yer tongue, Eulie," Ingomar said. "Don't want tae get stuck tae nothin'."

She expected a crass follow-up remark from the sour guard, but he was mesmerized by Eulalia. Craning her neck as far as comfort would allow, Ingomar saw the night elf wriggling on the floor of the cell, the curves and muscles of her body rippling like waves in a pond.

"Ye allrigh', lassie?" Ingomar said.

"Just trying to warm up," Eulalia said cheerfully.

Sweat beaded on the foreheads of both guards as they gazed at her.

"S working for somebody," Ingomar muttered.

"I—I'll give you my cloak," Marshall said, hastily retrieving the keyring from where the high elf had dropped it at the base of the stairs.

"Isn't your cloak enchanted to amplify magic?" Jeff said.

"She's a hunter, man. They don't have any magic."

Marshall fit the key into the lock, but before he turned it, Eulalia's arms snaked out from between the bars and coiled around his neck.

"That is a nice offer," she said quietly. "But I like a good exercise better."

Marshall choked as Eulalia jerked him back against the bars, strangling him where he stood. He sputtered and tried to wrench free, but Eulalia held him fast. Jeff strode over to help, but Marshall was dead in seconds, and as Eulalia let his corpse slip from her arms, his stiff hand turned the key.

The door swung open, and Eulalia leapt on Jeff like a tiger on a rabbit. His incantation died on his lips, struck from him as he was thrown to the stone floor.

"You were right. I have magic," she said, her voice low, soothing. "Older than what you use. Older than what is written about in your books." She took hold of his head, one hand cupping his chin and the other, the top of his hair. "Which is just as well, cos I can't read." Then, she snapped his neck.

"Did yeh plan that, lassie?" Ingomar asked, while Eulalia browsed the keyring for the key that would open her friend's cell.

"Hmm? Plan?" Eulalia said. She found the required key and unlocked Ingomar's cell. "I saw his neck near to me, so I decided to seize the opportunity. As hard as I could."

"And yeh didn't expect him tae come near yeh on account of yer wrigglin'?"

Eulalia shrugged. "I was cold." She rubbed her arms. "Still am."

"Well, let's see if we can't sort out where they've stashed our armor," Ingomar said. "Then we can crash Linnaris's dinner party."

They combined their extrasensory perceptions for this task, with Ingomar focusing her mind on the location of any nearby locked chests, and Eulalia on what guard, living or dead, might be appointed near those chests.

"There is a human two floors above us," Eulalia said. "His name is Dean Mortuus. That name sounds pretty important, don't you think?"

"Aye, an' there's a chest near'im. Let's go 'ave a visit."

Eulalia could not perceive two types of beings at once, but the undead were surprisingly sparse down wherever they were. Humans, mostly young peasants in robes that looked far too menacing for their wearers, walked up and down some of the hallways; but, most of the population was gathered behind closed doors.

Bits of gruesome lectures escaped from these rooms and Ingomar paused when the sound of a lich berating a student for his failure to capture a dwarf filtered out from behind a classroom door; the shouting was so intense that the door shook with transferred fury.

Ingomar chuckled. Served'em right.

They moved carefully, though not stealthily, through the halls. Whenever Eulalia sensed an approaching student, they hid in one of the many recesses set into the walls, with Eulalia melded to the shadows and Ingomar crouched in whatever coffin or sarcophagus she could find. She knew now that the student guard hadn't lied—they were beneath Andorhal, in its vast network of converted catacombs. However, she had little notion of where the contact point with the surface might be, having scoured the ruin of Andorhal various times for various reasons and never come across the concealed entrance to its necropolis.

But perhaps they'd worry more about that once they had their clothes back on.

The stairwell offered no place to hide, and the two women raced up the cowebbed, bone-littered steps, hoping not to meet any opposition. Fortunately, they encountered only a lost neophyte, who seemed to assume that Ing and Euls were dressed for some kind of obscene ritual. The young man tittered anxiously as he asked for directions to his dorm room, which was apparently in the north wing of the south crypt. Ingomar directed him down several flights of stairs, and to the left; she then shoved Euls ahead of her before anyone could say any different.

Fortunately, the dean's office was the third room down the hall from the top of the staircase. Without any particular plan in mind, Ingomar barged in, fists raised, with Eulalia close behind.

Dean Mortuus looked up at them amiably, from behind a magnifying glass he was using to read a book bound in human flesh. The words were extraordinarily small, and blood oozed continuously from the book's gilded edges.

"Hello there," he said, not lowering the glass. A gray, wolfish beard surrounded his chin, tufted at the sides, but well-kept. His robes were the same black and blue as that of the average cultist, but crimson and silver cords hung around his neck, and a black hood rested on his back. A mortarboard covered his bald head. Mortuus was comfortably sanguine, and looked, by all accounts, to be a reasonable, welcoming figure. He had the relaxed posture of the self-assured and well-fed, though fed by what Ingomar couldn't imagine.

"Can I help you, young ladies?" Mortuus said.

"Aye, yeh can open tha' chest fer us," Ingomar said, nodding to the enormous, ornate trunk wedged against the back wall of the office. Their gear was in it—she could feel the enchanted metals calling to her.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Mortuus said. He set down the magnifying glass. "You ought to've remained in your cells, my dears."

"Too chilly," Eulalia said.

"Ah, but wait til you have felt the absolute cold of death," Mortuus said, his voice deepening several octaves as he shed his human form and became a skeletal mage.

"Oi," Ing said. "Thought teacher-types were meant tae be smart."

"I have knowledge far beyond anything you are capable of grasping, little dwa—aaghh!"

Ingomar cut Mortuus off mid-insult, terrifying him with a shock of holy energy. He fled aimlessly around the office, knocking over shelves and vials, smashing the artifacts lined up on his desk (such as a skull with cruelly shaped teeth, its jaw smeared with a black, freshly glistening liquid). Eulalia caught him, and while he spasmed in uncontrollable horror at the Light's grace, Ingomar stole the pouches on his belt. Quickly, she found the key to the chest and opened the lock. Then, with joyful haste, Ingomar put her armor back on and tossed Eulalia's gear to her.

Mortuus's terror spell subsided just after Eulalia had refitted her breastplate (crafted from the dead carapace of an Old God) onto her chest. Slinging her quiver over her shoulder, she plucked an arrow from her stock and stabbed Mortuus in the neck. She jumped away as he grabbed for her, gurgling spells, and Ingomar summoned a pillar of holy fire to consume him. Augmented by the full power of her armor, the pillar reduced the Dean to ashes.

"Nice," Eulalia said.

"Thank ye," Ing said. "I do love the undead. It's so satsifyin' to watch'em burn."

Eulalia frowned at Mortuus's ashy remains. "Maybe sometimes. When they're real mean like that."

Thinking that this wasn't the time to persuade Eulalia about the undead's common, base nature, Ingomar did not argue. They divvied Linnaris's weapons and armor between themselves silently, and then faced the corridor.

--

An'jin kept his word: Cian did not yet have to justify his existence to Thrall, and they left Orgrimmar without event.

Cian let his muscles unclench during the ride to the Bulwark. When they arrived at the little encampment, An'jin said, "I know ya bin worried 'bout me, but da truth really is dat I wanna look out for ya. It's jus' dat I'm Vol'jin's man first, and so most of my time is occupied wit' whateva he's askin' for." He patted the heavy satchel around his waist fondly. "Or wit books an' so forth."

When he was a child, Cian's father told him tales of humans skirmishing with trolls, and of the latter race's great cunning. But he always framed it as a primitive rather than a learned intellect, and Cian felt slightly shamed that he had not recognized the book satchel. His mind had identified it as an overgrown voodoo pouch, or something equally ridiculous and misguided. He couldn't spare much energy for reflecting on his prejudices, though: the Scholomance was quite close, and they were at its entrance in short order.

"Got a key?" An'jin said, jabbing his thumb at the locked door.

Cian held up a set of thieves' tools, which included lock picks of various shapes and sizes. "Tons of'em."

As he set to work on the door, he tried to stave off the unsettling feeling of an invisible gaze on his back. No one was around except An'jin, and he was staring into the distance beyond Caer Darrow, perhaps to avoid thinking too deeply on the desecrated land surrounding them. Piles of aged, soot-black skulls sat in disarray beside the unearthly bonfires, and the moldering remains of once-thriving villagers were strewn across the Scourge's barbed metal cages, stinking still, rotten with worse than just fleshly decay. Only An'jin's imagination suggested the village's old life, but Cian had walked here in better times, and he was the more pained for it. Pointedly, he ignored the past whispering in his ear, the cries and pleadings of spirits both real and imagined.

Besides, it was not the innocent afterimages of Caer Darrow that spied on him, that marked his fumbling, normally expert work on Scholomance's lock. Something from inside the wicked manor watched him, waited for him.

At length, the lock ceded to his efforts, and the wooden door creaked open. Cian stepped aside while An'jin entered first, then slowly followed. The malicious presence intensified as they descended the steps into the manor proper. The chill of a hundred forgotten tombs sank into their bones; An'jin breathed out in frosted, ghost-white clouds. He cast a cloak of invisibility over himself, and Cian slipped into the shadows, but this only seemed to amuse the silent, unseen spy. The murmuring in the back of his head grew strong, until he heard a distinct voice, speaking in a low, grim whisper.

_Welcome home._

--

The dress was sheer, crafted of a diaphanous fabric that was softer than silk. It was simple, sleeveless, with silver embroidery around the skirt and low, heart-shaped neck. Linnaris didn't like it, and she liked the soulless high elves who had forced it on her even less. Their bodies were alive, but everything else was dead, and the woman responsible was sitting across from her, running her tongue across her teeth.

"Aren't you hungry?" Amarantha said, and gestured to the table between them, which was covered with exquisitely prepared food. Bowls of strawberries encrusted with sugar, glistening cuts of meat garnished with golden, buttered potatoes, quivering dishes of cream and chocolate. Platters of fresh, sun-gold wheels of cheese, bottles of wine, and a cutting board topped with thinly sliced, gently steaming bread.

"Not in the slightest," Linnaris replied, trying not to look at the tantalizing banquet.

Amarantha picked up a strawberry and leaned across the table, holding the fruit delicately between her fingers. Gems of sugar glittered on its porous, ruby-red skin, and Linnaris could smell its ripe sweetness, along with a sickly musk—the fruit had a strange shine, as though coated in something. Linnaris recoiled.

High elven attendants flanked the couches, holding empty trays, their faces without expression, their bodies rigid. Linnaris would die before she joined them; she would bite her tongue and bleed to death.

Amaranth swabbed the strawberry over Linn's lips, and the night elf tasted the acrid poison that slicked the fruit. Flattening herself against the couch's pillows, Linn said, "Really not hungry, thanks."

Amarantha left her seat and crossed over to Linn's couch, perching on its edge, strawberry in hand.

"I must insist." Amarantha grabbed Linnaris's chin and yanked her forward with surprising force; her nails cut bloody crescents into Linn's cheeks.

Linnaris glared back at Amarantha and parted her lips slightly, with the intention of biting down on her tongue as hard as she could. But just before her teeth pierced the muscle, a commotion at the room's entrance startled them both, and Linnaris was released.

Two of the listless high elves were sprawled on the floor; their sheer dresses pooled around their thin bodies like lamplight. Cian and An'jin stood over them, looking, respectively, surprised and guilty.

"Didn't expect'em ta just be fallin' ova like dat," An'jin said, nudging one of the women with a thick, blue toe.

"Linn," Cian said. "Are you all right?"

Linnaris ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. Her cheeks stung, and her nose burned with the harsh, sulfuric scent of the poison that had almost crossed her lips. "Fine."

"This is a private dinner," Amarantha said demurely, though she crushed the strawberry between her two fingers, and its red flesh slid down her wrists like viscous blood. "Kindly show yourselves out."

Shadow energy gathered in her palm.

Swiftly, Linnaris kicked Amarantha in her mid-section, causing the warlock to choke on her incantation. Leaping from the couch, Linnaris flipped over the food-laden table and landed between An'jin and Cian.

"Let's go, before she can talk again," she hissed, and sprinted into the corridor, with the two men close behind. A furious scream echoed throughout the stone hall as they ran (or teleported, in An'jin's case), careening away from that sound and its maker, until they were deep enough into the manor's labyrinth to feel some sliver of safety.

"I … don't suppose … you two heroes have my armor hidden somewhere, maybe?" Linnaris panted, sagging against a bookcase; they had run into what was once a formal living room.

Old bookshelves, filled with older books, lined the room's perimeter, and the room lacked any other furniture save for a few disturbingly stained stone benches and tables. Cobwebs hung from the ceilings and laced the dark corners of the room, and the dried, cracked bones of the long and newly dead littered the entire space, in circles, in piles, scattered across the torn, bloody pages of books.

"Fraid not," An'jin said, sincerely.

"How'd you even know where I was?" Linn said.

"Didn't," Cian said. "We were just opening doors."

"Oh, brilliant."

"Worked out pretty well," he said, and shrugged. "Where are Eulalia and Ingomar?"

Linnaris shook her head. "They blindfolded me as soon as I left their little prison. I don't have any idea how to get back there."

They were in the manor house proper now, Linnaris knew that much for sure, as she recognized this room—they weren't far from the front door, actually.

"Did they take ya outside at all?" An'jin asked.

"No …" Linn said, slowly, "but the light source dimmed a lot during one part of the walk. I may have been led through a tunnel."

"Makes sense," An'jin said. "Whole 'nother part of dis place be existin' undaneath da ruins of Andorhal."

"I think that was brought up. But I might have been too busy concentrating on the guards' heads in hopes that they would explode," Linn said. "And so I can't be sure."

"Back to opening doors, then," Cian said, and began a resolute march towards the nearest one, which was across the length of the rectangular space.

"Now wait a mo," An'jin said. "Let's be thinkin' about dis for just one second here."

"What's to think about?" Cian said. "You saw what that insane woman was about to do to Linnaris. Who knows what they're doing to Eulalia? Or Ingomar? We don't have time to think."

"We certainly don' have time for all ya pacin' and frettin'," An'jin said, lightly. "Just t'ink of da main facts we got—dere are two campuses, and one a' dem is underground. Linn remembers bein' taken through sometin' like a tunnel. Thus, it follows dat …"

Cian finished picking the lock on the pair of ornate doors at the other end of the room and pulled them open. "It follows that you talk too much." He faded into the shadows and motioned for the others to do the same. The sliver of him that wasn't insane with agitation and worry knew that An'jin was behaving with perfect reason, but honestly, the troll could have just told them to watch out for stairs.

The soft, menacing voice needled at him with every step, muttering doubts and seductions, trying to bend his own will against him. He was on the Lich King's property, and could not easily shut out the presence of his host. And the feeling of unseen eyes ran down his exposed spine like a pack of spiders; the two problems combined were agonizing; he felt like a puppet resisting its strings while its master watched, chuckling.

A mantra of defiance repeated in his head, a litany of 'no' spoken silently over and over in response to the dark impulses encouraged by the voice, which demanded that he give up, that he stab An'jin and Linnaris, that he succumb to the truth of his nature. The voice promised him things: power, immortality, the fulfillment of his desires, what and whoever they might be.

But what he most wanted at that moment was to get the hell out of there, preferably with all of his traveling companions in tow and un-maimed. Even, he realized begrudgingly, that mouthy paladin. Better they end up killing each other than let her fall to the Scourge, despite the fact that she seemed to think he wasn't far divested from that fold.

"Does this place seem strangely desolate to you?" An'jin said.

"It's a school for necromancy," Cian said. "You expecting fresh flowers and sunny loveseats?"

"I meant," An'jin said mildly, "dat de room is a little empty. Where de students at, and their ghostly tutors?"

"Good question," Linnaris said.

"Maybe someone came and killed them when we weren't looking," Cian said.

"Then where are the bodies?" Linnaris said, looking at Cian as though he were mentally frail.

Scowling, he shrugged violently and motioned to the open doors. Just as they crossed the threshold, before they had time to make sense of anything, they heard shouting.

Familiar shouting.

"Get yer hands offa me, ya filthy cult scum!" Ingomar roared, as she was dragged before an assembly of students and instructors, all of whom focused their menacing gazes on their new guests—Eulalia, attended by four necromancers far too burly for their robes, was brought in directly after her friend.

Shocked, Cian surveyed the expansive space, which appeared to serve as a lecture hall—burning bone piles were arranged on the marble floors, marking places for the students to gather, and a raised platform to Cian's left was furnished with bookcases and a podium that probably doubled as a sacrificial altar. Standing on the platform was a group of high-ranking cultists, including the insane woman who had kidnapped Cian's companions in the first place. And beside her, smaller, fairer, her full lips curved into a smug pout, was Nina.

"Valiant escape effort," Nina said, in a tone that indicated she clearly thought otherwise, "but fruitless."

"Not entirely, my dear," said an older woman standing near her, with features identical to the grizzled crone who had begged Cian to search for Nina's pendant back in Ashenvale. She had a venerable look to her, a long, sharply angled face marred with the shadows of countless cruelties endured and done, and eyes as distant as the fathoms of an ocean. Her cheekbones arched high beneath the cold eyes, and her lips were dark and thin, evoking fullness lost to age and other ravages. Cian surmised that this woman was, in fact, Nina's mother, and was little surprised by it.

The woman lifted a hand, and a group of students dragged two corpses into the center of the room, then dropped them unceremoniously, one on top of the other. The students bowed before receding into the assembly, their faces blank despite the fact that the corpses were clearly their classmates.

"You have provided us with freshly terrified specimens," Nina's mother said to Eulalia, who was struggling ferociously against her (now six) captors, "and for that, I thank you."

A red sigil circle glowed to life beneath the corpses, bathing them in sinister light. The runes inscribed on the circle seemed to shift and move across the floor as Nina, her mother, and her sister chanted together, until thin but tangible tendrils of magic rose from the circle and snaked around the two bodies, sinking into their clothes, animating their rigid muscles. The two young men rose and hung as if suspended, like puppets on wires. Their limbs jerked in random, painful directions, as the women on the platform directed, much to the alternately nervous and exhilarated glee of their audience (excepting Cian and the others, who were struck dumb with horror). The bodies groaned in real pain as they were manipulated, and Cian thought he could hear them pleading for release.

"You'll be released when we feed you to the plagued hatchlings," Nina said, with a high-pitched giggle. Her gloating was interrupted by a cry of pain from Eulalia's guard; the night elf had successfully removed a sizable chunk from one of their hands, and was snapping her jaws for more.

"Gag her!" Nina said, and three students rushed forward, offering their sashes.

"You are doing wrong, miss! Very wrong!" Eulalia shouted, just before a thick black sash was looped around her head and yanked back into her mouth, stifling her speech.

"Well now, I'd say that's a matter of opinion," Nina said, smiling at Eulalia's dark, enraged face. "What are you going to do, you filthy brute? Make like a tomato and sic your flea-ridden tiger on me? Oh, wait, he isn't here …"

Frustrated by the warlocks' sadistic display and Eulalia's anguish, nettled by the insistent voices in his mind, and just plain unable to stand doing nothing anymore, Cian stepped forward with his daggers out and said, "But I am."

He wasn't being a hero. He was just sick of hiding.

Nina's smile curled. The entire room shifted focus to Cian. He stared them down.

"How kind of you to join us, Cian," Nina said. "Though I am disappointed that you apparently greeted my sister before me."

"Real sorry about that," Cian said, and threw a jagged star at her, which she dodged nimbly. The star struck and embedded itself into the spine of a book on the shelf behind her, quivering from the force of Cian's throw. Shadows poured like gas from the book, and Nina manipulated the energy, twirling it around her wrists and forearms like so many bracelets. Cian watched her uncertainly, and then the energy lashed out at him, quick as a jet stream, binding his ankles and hands together, yanking him forcefully to the platform. He stumbled and landed before her on his knees, bound by the dark, searing energy.

Linnaris made to step forward, but An'jin touched her shoulder and shook his head. "Not now, mon," he whispered. "Not when dey all be payin' attention."

Gritting her teeth, she nodded, but kept a ready grip on her weapons all the same.

Cian tried to grab for his own daggers, but the shadows bound him, rendering him immobilized, forcing him to kneel before Nina. She threaded her fingers in his hair and yanked his head back, so that he could look at nothing but her cold, satisfied face. He said nothing, only set his jaw and waited.

"Don't look so angry," she said. "I have a gift for you, see?" With her free hand, she set the metal cage containing his heart in front of him. Cian inhaled sharply. The heart was still beating.

"Take it," Nina said, softly, encouragingly. "If you can."

Cian tried to turn his head, to look back on the expressions of his friends for advice, but Nina's hold was rigid and unforgiving.

He crawled forward, touched the cage's door. He felt the pulse of his heart through the bars, felt it sync with the rush of blood in his body. His heart called to him, wanting reunion.

It was a trap. Cian knew that. But he had waited so long. He could grab his heart, and then vanish, and then plunge his daggers into Nina's back. The others could escape in the ensuing confusion.

He opened the cage door. The heart beat faster; Cian noticed that the cage was wet with fresh blood. His, somehow? Trembling slightly, while the whole room watched, he took his heart in his hands.

Before the sound and feeling of the heart beating in his hands overwhelmed his senses, Cian's last thought was that it was surprisingly heavy. After that, his awareness dimmed: he saw the heart push itself forcefully into his chest, felt it latch onto the long-detached nerves, watched as the veins in his body turned black and bulged, straining against his skin. He lost control of his thoughts, and his feelings turned to a black storm inside of him, crushing whatever vestige of reason he had left.

The pinch of flash powder that he had been holding dropped to the ground and spilled across his boots.

Nina kissed his cheek. "Now, go on, my darling. Take what you want."

He looked out over the room, snarling, his vision blurred, his body radiating shadows.

The necromancers let Eulalia go.

She screamed his name, and the image of her body sharpened in his eyes. Daggers drawn, he lunged for her, and the screaming continued.


End file.
